Interviewing Matisse, or the Woman Who Died Standing Up Page 2

  Molly said, “Oh, and Inez’s father was the one who died of a heart attack, Lily. Now, it’s all coming back to me. Did you hear this already, Lily? Inez’s father died of a heart attack in someone—no, not in Inez’s mother’s arms—in some other woman’s arms, and Inez told me how even now she still could not stop thinking about this. Inez told me how she, Inez, was only twelve then, and how she was away on a school camping trip where the whole class had to hike up all the way to this lake, and Inez also said how she did not want to go on this trip and—no—not because Inez had any kind of presentiment—no—because she didn’t like these school camping trips. Inez said she hated sleeping outdoors. She always caught poison ivy, she said, and Inez said, she had tried to talk her mother into letting her not go and stay home, and when she got back, back from the camping trip, Inez said, not only was her father dead, he was not there. He was gone.”

  I said, “But what about the other woman, Molly? Who was she, do you know?”

  Molly said, “Lily, funny—I asked Inez the very same thing. I asked Inez if her father was really in love with this woman. And Inez said she did not know either, only she could not stop thinking about it. With Price, too, Inez said. When she and Price were making love was what Inez said she meant. Each time she and Price made love, Inez said, she could not stop thinking about what if Price had a heart attack right there on top of her, even if Price was only her husband.”

  I said, “Like Rockefeller. Remember what’s-his-name Rockefeller, Molly? Nelson. Nelson Rockefeller.”

  Molly said, “Yes, Nelson, but what was I saying? What was I talking about, Lily?”

  I said, “Inez. You were talking about Inez, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Oh, yes, Inez. I was talking about Inez, and I was saying how I should have warned Inez. I should have told her what Price said about Kevin. About how Kevin was the kind of bartender who uses shot glasses with phony measuring rings so that it looks to everyone like he is pouring out a lot more than he is and a lot more than just an ounce—oh, and did I tell you this, Lily? Kevin left a whole bunch of stuff—old paperbacks and magazines, a pair of jeans, some T-shirts, one good dress shirt with French cuffs. His toilet kit, too, Price said. Price told Claude-Marie he found the toilet kit in the bathroom. The toilet kit was filled with Kevin’s toothbrush and stuff, an electric razor and a package of condoms, and Price’s new wife, Claude-Marie said, threw everything out, and Price’s new wife wore rubber gloves. Rubber gloves, swear to God, this is true, Lily. Claude-Marie said he was there, and Claude-Marie said Price and Price’s new wife would not touch any of Kevin’s stuff. The two kids would not either.”

  I said, “Who? Molly, who? You are fading again. Speak into the receiver, will you?”

  Molly said, “Hello? Can you hear me, Lily? Inez’s two kids. Inez’s two boys. Price Junior had to fly in from San Francisco—San Francisco is where he lives now—the other boy is still in school. In Colorado, in Denver, I think. Or is it Boulder? Boulder, Colorado, Lily. And Claude-Marie said to me I would never have recognized these two boys. The two boys have grown so. Grown, I suppose, the way Bibi, my own daughter, has grown. This year, Bibi is going to be fourteen. I can’t believe this either.”

  I said, “Fourteen? Molly, I can remember when Bibi first started school and she had to wear the little blue uniform.”

  Molly said, “Poor Bibi. Bibi hates living in Senlis with Dominique, Claude-Marie’s sister, and Lily, just stop and think for a minute—think of how long it has been. It has been over ten years now since we moved into the house on rue Madame.”

  I said, “Molly, hard to believe, isn’t it? And I was still married to Jim. We were living in the apartment with no hot water overlooking the Pare Monceau.”

  Molly said, “The same year Price came to Paris to look at the site for his sculpture. No, it must have been the year after, Lily—the year I had all my hair cut, and Price—I’ll never forget this either, Lily—Price always wore this wool jacket, this red-and-black-plaid jacket like the jackets lumberjacks wear, and Price wore the jacket all over Paris. Price never took off the jacket—not even inside a restaurant.”

  I said, “I haven’t seen Price in months. I haven’t seen Price since Yuri’s opening and we went to the Vietnamese restaurant.”

  Molly said, “Claude-Marie sees Price. Claude-Marie sees Price all the time at the gallery and you know how tall Price is, Lily? Much taller than Claude-Marie. Price is head and shoulders taller than Claude-Marie, and Price, I remember, towered over everyone else along the Boulevard Montparnasse, and I remember I was telling Price how Gide, Malraux and Sartre had sat in those cafés—the cafés on the Boulevard Montparnasse—the Coupole and the Rotonde and the other one, the Dôme, and when Price and I got as far as the Closerie des Lilas, I told Price how the Closerie des Lilas was Hemingway’s favorite restaurant and how Hemingway always used to eat there, and Claude-Marie, I think, must have been away for the weekend then—Claude-Marie must have been in Senlis visiting Dominique, his sister—and Price and I had a drink there—a drink at the Closerie des Lilas—and at the time, I had no idea who Inez was or that Price was married. Hello?”

  I said, “Hello, yes. I can hear you. Molly, you know what time it is? It is nearly a quarter to two in the morning.”

  Molly said, “Yes, and Inez said she and Price got married too young. Inez said she and Price got married straight out of high school. One week after their high school graduation. And Inez told me how she had given up everything so Price could paint, so Price could sculpt. But what Inez said she really blamed Price for was for sneaking around her back with what’s-her-name—with Price’s new wife. Oh, why can’t I remember the woman’s name, Lily? Price’s new wife’s name is on the tip of my tongue—a funny name. A nickname. Nora would know. I can ask Nora. She and Nora take the same yoga class. Price’s new wife is a whole lot younger was what Nora also said. And from the very beginning, Claude-Marie said, he did not want to take sides. Claude-Marie said he did not want to be in the middle. What could I do, Lily? What could I say to Inez? In the restaurant. The last time I saw Inez, Lily. When was this? Two weeks ago when Inez and I had lunch together and it was raining.”

  I said, “Where, Molly? Which restaurant are you talking about?”

  Molly said, “The Italian restaurant. The Italian restaurant I went to with Yuri once—the time Yuri came to New York for his opening. The time Nora complained about. Inez and I, I remember, we were the very last ones to leave the restaurant. The waiters were scraping the chairs and setting up the tables, and the whole time too, Inez just kept talking—talking and telling me how she loved Kevin and how after Kevin left in the evenings, she could not get to sleep and how she could not resist it. Inez could not help herself was what Inez said to me. Inez said she went down the street and around the corner to the bar and to where Kevin worked part-time at night, and Inez said she would watch Kevin from the window, in the dark and from outside in the street. Inez told me she watched how Kevin made the drinks and how he talked to the waitresses, and Inez said how she hated herself. Inez told me how she would wait for Kevin to come home at two or three o’clock in the morning and she made love to him whether, at first, Kevin wanted to or not. Inez told me how she, Inez, would do anything for Kevin. Inez said how she would crawl naked on her hands and knees to the door of his bedroom—the door of her bedroom, Lily—because, of course, after the first couple of days, Kevin no longer paid any rent.”

  I said, “What? No rent? Kevin did not pay any rent, Molly? How much rent was Inez asking, Molly?”

  Molly said, “Lily, the rent made no sense. I said so myself. I said this to Inez. So did Patricia—Patricia, Inez’s sister. Patricia told Inez that if Inez were she, Patricia, Kevin would have to pay every bit of the rent, every last penny of the rent. Patricia told Inez that Kevin would also have to share the utilities, the gas and the electricity, and when I told Claude-Marie this, Claude-Marie said he agreed. Claude-Marie said he agreed completely with what Patricia had sa
id to Inez. Also, Claude-Marie has a thing about electricity. Because of the war, I guess, Lily, Claude-Marie is always turning off the lights—turning them off after me and after everyone, even if, say, I am just leaving the room for a minute to go to the bathroom, even if I am planning to return to the room almost immediately. I don’t know how many times I have told Claude-Marie not to and besides, it is not always so economical the way Claude-Marie says it is. Like stopping and starting a car to save gas, which everyone knows is a fallacy.”

  I said, “I know what you mean, Molly. I told you about when Jim and I were crossing the desert and I said to Jim: Jim, for once in your life, please listen to me.”

  Molly said, “Which reminds me of the other thing Claude-Marie said when he telephoned—no, not the first time—when Claude-Marie telephoned from Ivan and Nora’s apartment—this is where Claude-Marie is right now, where Claude-Marie is spending the night—on Ivan and Nora’s sofa bed. The same sofa bed Yuri slept on, and what I was going to say was how Claude-Marie and Price and damn—damn, why can’t I remember the woman’s name? It’s driving me crazy, Lily.”

  I said, “Go through the alphabet. Start with A—Abigail, Alice, Ann; then B—Barbara, Bea—”

  Molly said, “I’ll think of her name in a minute—but what Claude-Marie said was Price still had a set of keys, and Price told Claude-Marie he did not want to go there alone. So Price, and Price’s new wife whatever her name is, and Claude-Marie, all three of them went, and this was what I was going to tell you, Lily—what Claude-Marie said he had noticed from way down in the street. Claude-Marie said he noticed all the lights were on and not just the stereo, the way I said, Lily. The dry-cleaning too. The dry-cleaning, Claude-Marie said, was lying right there on the floor as you stepped out of the old elevator. The dry-cleaning was lying right under the picture of Christ being taken down from the cross and right where the delivery boy had dropped it probably, when he saw Inez. Poor Inez. No one, Claude-Marie said, had bothered to turn off the lights or turn off the stereo, and no one—not the police even—had bothered to pick up the dry-cleaning, which in a way, Claude-Marie said, was ironic. The dry-cleaning was someone else’s tuxedo, Lily, and—oh, the delivery boy told the police, at first, he thought Inez was one of those statues—one of those life-sized statues like the one on Park Avenue, the one of a man hailing a taxi—Lily?”

  I said, “Yes—by George Segal.”

  Molly said, “But I should have guessed, Lily. This is what I kept thinking. This is what I kept saying to myself—I should have guessed in the restaurant—I told you already, Inez kept me waiting and it was raining—oh, and you should have seen what Inez was wearing, Lily. Inez was wearing T-shirts—a whole bunch of T-shirts that were layered one on top of each other and all of them were different colors—oh, and this reminds me, Lily, Inez gave me a T-shirt to take back to Bibi. A T-shirt that says Shit Happens on it that Claude-Marie said Bibi could not wear and that I said: In France, it does not matter. In France, I said to Claude-Marie, no one knows what shit means, and Claude-Marie said: No, in France, people do know. But what was I saying? Oh, Inez was also wearing this scarf. A yellow gauzy silk scarf that Inez had tied turban style and that covered her hair—her thick hair. The scarf had these little gold bangles sewn on the ends gypsylike and the little gold bangles kept shaking and shining while Inez kept talking and telling me about Kevin and telling me how she wanted to travel, too, and how she had never been anywhere except for that one time to Spain with Price, and Spain, Inez said, had been a mistake, and I said: Inez, I only have the five hundred dollars to lend you.”

  I said, “Five hundred dollars? What five hundred dollars, Molly?”

  Molly said, “I told you, didn’t I, how I told Inez I couldn’t lend her the money she asked me for and how I said: Please believe me, Inez, I don’t have a thousand dollars. I said: Inez, don’t forget, we have to sell the house in Connecticut. And I said: No, no, no—it’s not all Claude-Marie’s fault. Inez, I don’t blame Claude-Marie. I blame Thomas Hamlin Aldrich.”

  I said, “Who, Molly? Thomas who?”

  Molly said, “Claude-Marie’s broker. But this is a whole other story. I am not even going to get into Thomas Hamlin Aldrich with you, Lily. Anyhow, it is too late now. Thomas Hamlin Aldrich was electrocuted to death when his dog peed against a lamppost. This is true—swear to God. The dog died too. The wires were not grounded or insulated or whatever they have to be. This was what I told Inez. I told Inez how Claude-Marie went to the funeral, and how Claude-Marie said the church was packed although most of the people there were just like him probably—like Claude-Marie—broke. And I told Inez how I had so much to do still. I said I have to sell this house in Connecticut, I said I have to pack up our stuff. I have to pack up the cat. You don’t like cats, do you, Lily? And you should see my desk, Lily. The desk I am sitting at right this minute as I am talking to you. I have saved nearly everything—bills, letters, recipes, clippings, things out of newspapers—everything.”

  I said, “But Molly, what about Inez and the money?”

  Molly said, “Five hundred dollars so-help-me-God-or-strike-me-dead was all I said to Inez I could lend her—oh, this was what the only other married man said to me too, Lily, only he said this to me about his wife. The only other married man besides the French count said he had not slept with—he had not had sex with his wife in nearly ten years and not since the time we landed the astronauts. He said he remembered this distinctly. He said he had watched this on TV and he remembered, he said, how they, the astronauts—had walked on the moon without gravity, how they had looked as if they were floating. He remembered too, he said, how hard it was for them to step up and back up into their capsule, and how after that he and his wife had made love, and that time, he said, was the last time they had done this—so-help-him-God-or-strike-him-dead.”

  I said, “I watched the same program, too, Molly, and to me, the moon landing did not seem real. To me, the moon landing looked made up in a studio and Sam—Sam, who was watching the program with me—said just like Orson Welles.”

  Molly said, “Who? But Inez—I’ll never forget. Inez was in Spain then, and Inez said she only saw the picture later in Life magazine, and what else did she say? Inez said at the time—the same time—she did not know how a good Catholic girl like herself could go to bed with someone named Jesus, and I said to her: Inez, wait a minute. The Spanish, Inez, all have names like Jesus and Immaculate Maria. The Spanish, I said, all go to bed with each other. Oh, and Ramirez. Ramirez was what Inez said. Inez said she would always remember this—how everyone in the village outside of Toledo was named Ramirez and how they were all related and how everyone in the village always wore black and how no one said a single word to her for the entire year and all Inez did was lug the kids and the groceries up this steep hill to where they lived the year Price got the grant. But where was I? Oh—in the restaurant. But first, did I tell you, Lily? Did I tell you Inez arrived half an hour late? My shoes, too, my shoes were soaking wet, it was pouring, pouring just the way it is today. I was all set to go back—back to Connecticut—and when Inez finally arrived, guess what? Inez arrived in a taxi. If Inez needed the money, Inez could have taken the bus, Inez could have taken the subway. Instead—oh, Inez also had an argument with the taxi driver. An argument over the fare. Inez said fuck you to the driver and the driver laughed. He said dosvidanya.”

  I said, “Oh, the driver must have been Russian, Molly.”

  Molly said, “But, Lily, I am trying to remember what else Inez said besides how she and Price got married straight out of high school, only a week after their high school graduation, and how she, Inez, gave up everything so Price could paint, so Price could sculpt, and how, in this village, all she did was wash—wash out clothes, wash out diapers—and there was no one in the village for her to talk to except for this one boy who babysat—Jesus Ramirez. And Jesus, Inez said, was really only a child. Jesus, Inez said, was maybe fourteen or fifteen years old, and the time Inez was talking a
bout—the time the astronauts landed—Price was out. Price had gone to Toledo to buy paint brushes, to buy art supplies. Inez was at home alone, she said. Inez said she was washing out clothes and the water was running. Well, nearly alone. The two boys were there. But the two boys did not count. The two boys were little, Inez said. The two boys were napping, which makes me wonder out loud, Lily, what those two boys look like right now—right this minute, I mean. The older boy, Price Junior, I know, looks just like Price. The younger boy, the boy who was nearly born in the car, doesn’t look like anyone. Matthew does not look like either Inez or Price—oh, yes, except once—once Inez said, if Matthew were to put on a bow tie, Matthew would look just like her father. Inez’s father. The one who died of a heart attack. The one whom I was just telling you about. He, her father, Inez said, always wore a bow tie, a polka dot bow tie. Oh—this makes me wonder too, Lily, about the poor woman—remember? The poor woman whose arms he died in? I wonder about how she would have had to get Inez’s father dressed again. How she would have had to put on Inez’s father’s socks and put on his vest—if, that is, Inez’s father had worn a vest—and how she would have had to tie the bow tie and how she probably had never tied a bow tie in her life and how she probably had to tie the tie a dozen times before she thought she got it right and was halfway satisfied.”

  I said, “Molly, I know. Sam tried to teach me how to tie a bow tie. It’s not easy, Molly. Sam made me practice on my knee.”

  Molly said, “Strange too, what this makes me think of. This makes me think of my own father. My own father did not wear bow ties, Lily, and my father did not die of a heart attack. My father died of an aneurism sitting right there at his desk, and what this makes me think of is how my father said he wanted to be cremated. Cremated in his white linen suit, he said. A suit he had had made to measure in England—especially. Only when he died, the suit no longer fit him. My mother had to have that white linen suit altered, Lily. I tried to talk my mother out of it—out of letting out the suit. I told my mother if my father was going to be buried this would have been different. My mother said I was hard-hearted and, what was more, I had no respect for the dead. I said to her: After all, I am just trying to be practical, and when I told Claude-Marie—told Claude-Marie what my mother had said—Claude-Marie said he knew all along anyway that all Southerners were crazy. Virginians. Virginians is what I keep reminding Claude-Marie, and I keep telling Claude-Marie there is a big difference. Virginians, I tell Claude-Marie, are not Southerners. Virginians are different. I had the same discussion with Yuri once. Yuri is Russian, and Russians, too, are different. In a way, Lily, Russians are a lot like Virginians. I told Yuri, he, Yuri, would have loved my mother. Only you cannot believe everything Yuri says—for instance, about his own mother. Yuri is always saying how his mother knew Chekhov, and Chekhov, we all know, died in 1904, which would mean that Yuri’s mother was over a hundred years old—oh, like Havier’s grandmother. You know my friend Havier in Old Saybrook—Havier who helped me with the seagull, Havier who is Fred’s lover? According to Havier, his grandmother has nineteen children, sixty-four grandchildren, and God knows how many great grandchildren, and Havier, because he is gay, is the only one in his family, he says, except for one sister, who has something wrong with her ovaries, not to have any children. Inez—when I told her this—Inez could not believe this. Inez only has the one sister—Patricia. And Patricia has no children. Patricia, Inez said, had electroshock treatment. Patricia moved to Hawaii. Lily? Electroshock treatment, Lily, is not as bad as it sounds and a lot of people I know have had it. Amy, my best friend from school in Charlottesville, has. Amy had electroshock treatment because she saw monkeys—monkeys instead of people. Oh, did I say Charlottesville, Lily? I said Charlottesville because Charlottesville is simpler. I lived in a small town outside of Charlottesville. But Crozet is not really a small town either. Crozet is a bunch of houses, a general store, a post office. What’s more, no one has ever heard of Crozet, and if Claude-Marie thinks all Southerners are crazy, Claude-Marie should have lived in Crozet. Claude-Marie should have met the Miss Marys, which reminds me of the town Kevin said he was from—LeGrange, Texas.”