So Much Blue Page 4

  “What did I say?”

  “You looked off and said, like you didn’t even know you were speaking, you said you could use paint to make a landscape, but no landscape could ever be a painting.”

  “And you understood that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s a relief. I’m lucky you didn’t sprint out of there. I have no fucking idea what I could have meant by that. You’re sure that’s what I said?”

  Linda laughed softly. “I just fell in love with you again.”

  “You are a romantic,” I told her.

  “When did you fall in love with me?” she asked.

  “The very first time I saw you.”

  “No, really.”

  “Really.”

  I was lying. I wanted to have fallen in love the way I had described. I wanted to fall again. We didn’t make love. We were too exhausted from a day with the children, but we sat there on the porch deep into the night. The fireflies disappeared, the clouds drifted away and exposed the moon, then came back.

  A light rain fell.

  Back then Richard was married to a rather beautiful woman named Rachel. Rachel had been one of Richard’s graduate students, but she quit her studies in order to pursue her relationship with her teacher, a move for which she blamed Richard, though he told a slightly and predictably different story. Nonetheless or nevertheless, who knows which is correct, they married, resentment not only intact but growing. Richard and Rachel rented a house in Edgartown during the same month that we were on the island. They needed to be able to walk to coffee and bagels, Richard said.

  I met Richard for one of those bagels and a cup of coffee one Sunday morning. He’d asked me to join him at a place near the ferry dock.

  “It’s too hot to walk,” Richard said.

  “Then you’ll be sitting here for a while,” I said. “It’s supposed to stay hot all week.”

  He nodded, pointed with his chin to something behind me. I paid him no mind. He was always trying to get me to notice attractive women.

  I drank hot tea, believing it would make me cooler. I believed this because I had read it when I was a child and I believed it even though I had never had any experience of its actually working.

  “Do you think I’m sexy?” Richard asked.

  “I’ve only just met you,” I said.

  “No, really.”

  “Sexy?”

  “Yeah, you know, sexy, alluring, seductive, desirable.”

  I added, “Sultry, slinky, toothsome. Do you mean beddable?” I glanced around to see if anyone was overhearing our talk. “I have to say, not to me, no.”

  “Imagine you were a woman.”

  “What’s one thing have to do with the other?” I asked. “If I were a woman I still wouldn’t find you sexy because I would no doubt be a lesbian. What’s this all about anyway?”

  “I think Rachel is tired of me.”

  “I can see why,” I said.

  “Physically, I mean.”

  “Where is all of this coming from? You don’t sound like you.”

  “I don’t know. It’s probably because her best friend Barbara showed up and now it’s like I’m not even here.” He pushed his bagel across his plate. “They’re like emotional Siamese twins or something. It’s bad enough that they talk every day, but now that they’re here together—” He picked up the bagel and tore off a bite. “Well, they’re regular Papin sisters.”

  “You know, I don’t pretend to get your obscure references, but I understand you now.”

  “You do?”

  “You’re a big baby who feels left out.”

  “Well, when you put it that way? So, you don’t think they’re at the house right now eating pussy?”

  A woman at a near table looked up from her book.

  “Keep your voice down,” I said. “Let’s look on the floor and see if we can’t find your Y chromosome.”

  “You know what it is. She’s too young for me.”

  “You mean, you’re too old for her.”

  Richard nodded. “Who knew I’d be the one feeling insecure?”

  “That would be everybody.”

  Needless to say, that marriage didn’t last. To be fair, it lasted longer than I thought it would and ended without the explosion I had predicted, more of a fizzle. Luckily, neither Richard nor Rachel was terribly crushed, mostly exhausted and, I imagine, relieved.

  “You made it past a year,” I said. I held my glass of bourbon up to toast.

  He touched his glass to mine. “I should have listened to you.”

  “I never said anything, did I?”

  “But you thought it.”

  “Yes, I thought it.”

  “April’s almost a teenager now. What’s that like?”

  “You’re not allowed to marry my daughter,” I said. “She’s too old for you.”

  “She’s cute, though.” He poured more booze into our glasses. “And William, is he surviving the hormone storm?”

  “I suppose. He’s a little like me.”

  “Oblivious?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think he might want to go sailing with me tomorrow?”

  “I think he’d love it.”

  “Kevin, why do you think I make bad choices?”

  “Do you?”

  “Like marrying Rachel.”

  I looked out his window at the dying lawn. “Rachel is a smart, beautiful woman. I would hardly call her a bad choice. It didn’t work out.”

  “She’s a lesbian.”

  “Well, she discovered that or finally admitted it to herself, however that works, but if she didn’t know, how could you? Imagine how painful that was for her, hiding it, denying it.”

  “You’re such a fucking good liberal. You’re very reasonable when we talk about my life, aren’t you?” Richard said. “Have you noticed that?”

  I looked at him. “You’ve been talking to Linda.”

  “She says you work too much.”

  I nodded.

  “She says you’re drinking a lot.”

  I nodded again. “That might be true.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  The drinking too much was quiet in its way and yet, without causing physical disturbance, was violent enough. I would start around midday, innocuously, with a glass of wine and graduate pre-dinner to scotch or bourbon. It was a problem I didn’t know I had until I was nearing the bottom of a bottle and so to avoid that feeling I would buy several bottles at once. The new complexion-challenged boy at the corner liquor store asked if I was having a party. I got into my car and started crying. But I didn’t stop drinking. Instead I spread my purchases over a wider area, knowing the while how pathetic I was.

  Paris

  What I didn’t tell you is that this music started with five measures of rests. What marks the beginning of the first measure? The poem has a woman and a man walking through a bare, cold wood. They are looking up at the moon set into a cloudless black sky. But then, but then after the wind presses against the man’s back, we O sieh, wie klar das Weltall schimmert! Es ist ein Glanz um Alles her.

  Victoire and I were to meet for lunch at La Contrescarpe in the fifth arrondissement and so we did meet there. I arrived first, as I arrive everywhere first; I am always early, a combination of poor planning and a desire to delude myself into thinking that I can have some control of a situation even if it is only that I get to see the world first. I sat in the café, surrounded by books that were mere decoration. Little ambience was achieved by the hodgepodge of titles, but the place was in truth memorable for its ornamentation. I found the farrago of spines more unsettling than anything else. It was a crisp, almost cold day. I sat with an espresso and watched people walk by, waited for one of them to be Victoire.

  Seeing Victoire bounce toward me on rue Lacépède made me feel both young and old. She spotted me and smiled and for a moment I saw nothing but her youth and that left me feeling both bad and wonderful. She smiled at me and the bad feel
ing went away. I stood and pulled out a chair for her.

  The waiter came over and Victoire ordered a coffee. She looked at me and, as if we had been in conversation for minutes, said, “Tell me something clever about painting.”

  I shook my head. “Wrong tree,” I said.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s an expression. ‘You’re barking up the wrong tree’ means you’re looking for answers in the wrong place.”

  “Then tell me something about painting. Anything.”

  “I can tell you about my eyes,” I said.

  “About your eyes?”

  The waiter delivered Victoire’s coffee.

  “I hate my eyes. I have two of them and exactly the same thing goes into each.”

  “So, one of your eyes wants something different,” she said. Her flirtation bothered me only because it made it apparent that she was smarter than I was.

  “Do you live near here?” I asked.

  “Very close.” She sipped her coffee. “Where is your wife?”

  “She’s on a train. She arrives at four.”

  She looked around the café, lingered on the books. “I have never liked this place. Do you like it?”

  “It’s okay. Is there someplace you would rather go?”

  “Yes. It is very close.”

  Very close was of course Victoire’s flat. She was after all a watercolorist and her apartment was full of them. Thankfully they were not portraits of cows, but there was a preponderance of empty parks and stark river scenes. There was a large window that overlooked a garden. In the middle of the garden was a broken birdbath and I felt a little guilty when I realized I was paying more attention to it than to the many works of art. I turned my attention to her work and found them well done, but ordinary. I paused at a picture of a stream.

  “This reminds me of Monet’s Ice Floes.”

  “Merci, monsieur,” she said and feigned a curtsy. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “Please.”

  She went to the small kitchen area and returned with one glass. She stood close to me while I took a sip, close enough that she made me nervous and somewhat charged. She bounced on the balls of her feet. I noticed this as I noticed that her feet were now bare. “This is where you try to kiss me and I turn away coyly.”

  I put my glass down and less awkwardly than I thought possible I placed my left hand around the young woman and pressed my fingers against the small of her back. She felt light and alive and I kissed her lips, softly, for several seconds and she did not pull away, coyly or otherwise, and I knew that I would never convincingly lie to myself that it felt anything but wonderful.

  “Well, that was very nice,” I said. “And now I must be going.”

  “What?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, but I didn’t let her go. “I’m no good at this.” I knew I was lying. Apparently, I was quite good at this and my attempt at self-delusion was part of my less than clumsy flirtation. I kissed her again, and again she kissed me back. For so many years I had been with no one other than my wife, but my only clumsiness came during the few seconds that I considered that fact. Victoire was thin and broad shouldered and had a pronounced rib cage that pressed into me as I held her. She sighed but it was performance. I compared her to no one as I held her, as I continued to kiss her, as I raked my finger down her neck, her clavicle, and across a nipple beneath her thin sweater. She hardly had breasts and when she stepped back and removed her sweater with one fluid motion I could see just how beautiful her flat chest was. She dropped her sweater to the floor and looked away, said something about suddenly feeling shy. I remember clearly what I said to her, was happy to say it because finally I exercised some control in this play. I said, “Please don’t let flirtation ruin our sex.” She was taken by surprise and, I believe, aroused by my utterance. Even in the moment I was proud to have said sex instead of lovemaking. She came back to me, kissed me again, her mouth more open this time. I placed my hand behind her head, my fingers in her hair, and I pulled her back to look at her face. “Where is your bathroom?” I asked.

  I did need to urinate, but what I really wanted was a break. In French fashion there was nothing in the toilet, but the toilet. There was no mirror and so I could not look at my face. Had I been able to stare myself down I might have made a quick decision to leave that little apartment. As I stared at the door, which offered no reflection, preparing to reenter the world, I could still feel Victoire’s tongue just inside my mouth. It felt good to want this woman and I felt no guilt.

  And yet I did not touch her again. I looked at her youthful hands, her neck, and reached for my coat.

  “You’re not leaving?”

  “I think I should be.”

  “Stay longer.”

  “I have to meet my wife at her train.” I said it so matter-of-factly that I startled myself.

  “How old are your children?” she asked. She pulled the sheet over her lap.

  “They’re young. Six and two. April and Will.”

  “Are they as cute as I am?”

  “In a different way.”

  “I should hope so.”

  I laughed as I tied my shoes. “How did you get to be this way?”

  “What way is that?”

  “Clever.”

  “It comes naturally. So much comes naturally.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “You’re very brave,” she said.

  I looked at her, perhaps tilting my head like a confused dog. “Brave? What does being brave have to do with this?”

  “Look at where you are. You’re in the flat of a young French girl.”

  “That’s not courage, that’s weakness, lust, indulgence.”

  “Have it your way.”

  I looked at my watch.

  “Will you come back?”

  “I don’t know.” I looked at her face. I did want to see her again and so I nodded.

  She turned to her desk and wrote down her phone number. “You can call me any time you like.”

  “I will do that.”

  Linda struggled with her bag down the platform. I pushed my way upstream through the disembarking passengers to get to her. I took the bag that hung from her shoulder and she held on to her rolling suitcase.

  “Well, we’re on time,” she said. “That was some long train ride. How was your lunch?”

  “Nice.”

  “Where did you eat?”

  I told my first lie. “Of all places, the restaurant in Le Bon Marché.”

  “Did you buy me anything?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m starving. Mind sitting with me while I eat?”

  “Of course. Where do you want to go?”

  “The bistro near the hotel is fine.”

  We walked from the station over to rue Saint-Placide where we sat outside under a heat lamp in a café right by the metro. Linda ordered a burger, fries, and a Coke. I ordered coffee.

  “So, Bordeaux was not so good?”

  “Not so bon. A big mall.” She sipped her Coke. “Margaret seems to like it. I think it’s probably better to live there than to visit.”

  “What’s her husband like?”

  Linda rolled her eyes. “Unemployed Italian guy. Leonardo. Didn’t like him. Didn’t trust him. He had a playboy vibe.”

  “Margaret must see something in him,” I said.

  “So what was it like with your young friend?”

  I could have taken her question as an accusation, but it wasn’t. “Enlightening.”

  “How so?”

  “Talking to her, I wondered if I was ever that young. I must have been, but I can’t remember it.”

  Linda’s food arrived. “That was quick. Merci.”

  “Etienne asked me to stay on another two weeks,” I told her. My French agent had mentioned my remaining in Paris a while longer, but had only suggested it in passing. “There are some buyers he wants me to meet.”

  “Of course. You should stay. Are you su
re you’re not staying for your new girlfriend?” Linda smiled at me, her joking smile.

  I didn’t respond to that.

  House

  I suppose every alcoholic desires to regard himself as simply a harmless drunk, wants to believe that no one really sees him for what he is. No, I never flew into rages or stumbled late and noisily into dance recitals or yelled a little too loud and made inappropriate comments at soccer games, but I became acutely aware that I wore a sickly sweet late-evening cologne and I noticed how my children looked at my eyes, holding them for too long and looking away too quickly. But mostly I was made ashamed by the way Linda turned away from me every night, her pretend-sleeping face aimed at the window. I could tell from the attitude of the back of her head that she was wide awake and stressed out, it being in her breathing, how stiff and close her elbows were held to her frame. There was no one reason that triggered my cold turkey suspension, and I use suspension here as a nod to that common and perhaps correct thinking, that one can all too easily fall prey to the bottle at any time. Truth be told, I didn’t miss the bottle when I decided to stop and I don’t miss it now. There was no poignant comment from a wise child, no epiphany at all worth mentioning, just a slow growing sick of myself. I had to stop cold turkey and I had a catalyst. I was never any good in groups. There was just too much God in AA and that might have driven me to drink and drugs. What I found to sustain my effort was my private painting, which ironically seemed to be as damaging to my family as cognac. It was certainly materially more expensive; paint is pricey stuff. The painting did both bring me back to my family and drive a formidable wedge between us. I only occasionally worked into the wee hours the way I claimed to work when I was a mere drunk. I cannot say that I was more attentive to the workings of my family, though I was physically more present, but my mind was nearly always on the painting or in the painting or around the painting. It was far more socially acceptable to be a workaholic, the obsessed artiste, than it was to be a drunk, but, using an old neighbor’s phrase, I’m here to tell you that one addiction was as bad as the next.

  The real sadness was that I drifted away from my wife and children because of alcohol, but instead of finding the current back to them when I ceased, I camped out on an uncharted island in the middle of myself. Nonetheless, selfish as I was, things were better. I was more trustworthy. An absent minded artist is more forgivable than an alcoholic.