by Ron Hansen
Immediately half the room pointed to Pierre, and the other half pointed to Dick. They felt accused. They shrank.
And then Iona’s double bed gave way from the weight, its wooden frame fracturing with a shriek.
Confusion ensued.
Reverend Picarazzi sidled up to Owen and confided, “I think the floor could go next.”
Owen shifted his weight from his right foot to his left and heard an elephant groan from the joists. He raised his Cosmo. “Uh, people? We have a situation here.”
In the mass exodus, Mrs. Christiansen told Iona, “Let’s see: we have Cracker Barrel cheese left. There’s still some of that good ambrosia . . .”
Opal said, “I could cook up something.”
And all yelled in unison, “No!”
30
Outside Mrs. Christiansen’s rooming house, the confederacy of onlookers had doubled in number. Lawn chairs and picnic tables had been teamstered over. Orville Tetlow’s wife was filling coffee cups from a chuffing urn on a card table. A girl was walking along and holding out a pastry box and people chose donuts from it. Inquiring minds had congested around Bert Slaughterbeck as he held forth. “Whereas if it was poltergeists, I think you’d see some of that levitation and telekinesis, plus those little red pig eyes and books flying across the room.”
And now there was a buffet in the upstairs hallway. Mrs. Christiansen brought out her best silver coffee service and china. Toasts and pastries were in white-napkined baskets. It looked like a catered affair.
Carlo moonily stared at Iona’s room, still thinking, One heart, one bed, one troth, and he said to no one in particular, “I just hope she learns to love again.”
Owen hauled a chair up to the buffet table and was ravening with great relish as he told the priest, “What I did was combine about sixty percent cabernet sauvignon grape and about thirty percent merlot, plus some cabernet franc and malbec to keep it true to the soft and fruity . . .”
Natalie interrupted to fill Owen’s coffee cup.
Owen asked her, “Any progress on your end?”
“Two say I should marry Pierre. Two say Dick. Two say it is usually hotter in August. Iona is abstaining. What do you think?”
“We could be a little cooler this year.”
The Reverend Picarazzi kicked his shin.
“Oh that,” Owen said. “Well, I’m a silent partner in ‘Smith et Fils’ now, so my choice would be whatever makes Pierre happiest.”
And then the Reverend Picarazzi spoke and the river of his sentences was so slowed by his tiredness that she understood many words. “You and your fiancé,” he said, inter-locking his fingers, “you fit together, you mesh. You accessorize each other, so to speak. And Iona and Dick: peas in a pod. Hand in glove. But you switch the parties around—if you don’t mind my saying—it’s a shtickl crazy. You find yourself thinking, What shoes do I wear with this? I haven’t any wisdom; I just call ’em like I see ’em.”
She smiled and got up and went to Iona’s room, where six women gathered to dispassionately list Pierre Smith’s good and bad points.
Iona said, “He’s French, number one.”
Opal asked, “I forget: Was that a good or bad point?”
Iona smiled. “C’est bon!”
Ursula said, “He’s a hunk.”
Mrs. Christiansen said, “He’ll be a good provider.”
And old Nell said, “He’s always carrying around that duck.”
She was stared at.
Iona said, “You’re thinking of Chester.”
“Oh.”
Opal folded her arms with finality. “I have it on good authority that he’s a philanderer.”
“Oh, he is not,” Iona said.
“You say that like it bothers you,” Ursula said.
“Are we talking about Chester?” Nell asked.
They all shouted, “No!”
Cigars made Natalie’s quarters as gray as a political back room as Dick straddled a Shaker chair he’d spun around and Pierre hunkered on the floored mattress, his head in his hands, his jacket and bow tie off.
With some heroism, the rancher said, “You know, actually a guy like you couldn’t make a better choice for a wife. She’s smart, fun to be with, beautiful, and you can tell in an instant what a good person she is. And it’s as plain as the nose on your face that she loves you . . .”
Pierre jerked his head up, his door-damaged nose heavily bandaged and no longer noble. “She loves you!”
Dick held his cigar in his mouth as he gave that solemn thought. Cigar smoke lengthened toward the ceiling, waving like seaweed, and he said, “She was trying to make you jealous.”
“She’s crazy!”
Skinny Carlo was stooping to tap cigar ash into a plastic cup on the floor when he noticed the Ferragamo loafer Pierre tore on his Wednesday walk into Seldom. “Whose shoe you s’pose this is?”
Pierre turned, struck by her tenderness for him. “She kept it?”
Dick said, “See there?”
In Mrs. Christiansen’s many slept. Ursula was on Iona’s floor, a hand slung over her boom box. In the hallway, the guys with the scuba tanks were hugging them against the main staircase railing. Owen was next to the hallway food table on a dining room chair, balancing precariously on its hind legs as he snored. Carlo was underneath the hallway table, jam dripping onto his cheek. The trucker from Sidney was sitting upright against his pony keg, in his hand Natalie’s gift of a mallard wine decanter, now half-filled with beer.
Even though it was nearing sunrise, Dick was still awake and soldierly on the Shaker chair, paging through the heirloom journal of Bernard LeBoeuf that he’d given Natalie.
The Reverend Picarazzi was face down on the yellow sofa downstairs, his sneakers off, his Volkswagen van’s keys fallen to the floor beside a limp hand.
In the upstairs bathroom Pierre was washing up. Water ran in the sink as he shook back his wild blond hair, straightened his bow tie, gently touched his bandaged nose, and for a long time looked haggardly into the mirror. “Tu es un imbécile,” he said. (You are a fool.) Then he turned off the water and exited the bathroom.
At the far end of the peopled hallway, Natalie was facing him like a gunfighter. She held high Reverend Picarazzi’s Volkswagen keys. “Allons-y,” she said. (Let’s go.)
And Pierre asked, “Ou?” (Where?)
Sunrise in Nebraska. The indigo skies high overhead were lightening to electric blue and magenta just above the inky tree canopy and to a soft mist of rose and gold at the eastern horizon. The old Volkswagen van was stalled on an iron-girdered bridge high above Frenchman’s Creek as two side doors winged open and Natalie and Pierre got out, their clothes off. Sun rays streaked through the woods and the golden sun rose like something wet and molten behind them as she got up onto the bridge frame’s sidewall and then he. They looked down to the sun-painted creek twenty feet below as she counted, “Un, deux, trois,” and they flung themselves naked into the chill water. They gasped when they broke the surface, but soon got used to the morning cold as they swam. She told him, “We have too many hindrances to our marrying.”
“C’est vrai,” he said. “Par exemple . . .”
“English, Monsieur.”
“There is this madness in you.”
“And you are shifty.”
“You have no head for business,” he said.
“And you?”
“Bad example,” he said. “But you get up too early and put on as music your Fred Astaire, your Gene Autry.”
“You stay up too late. And you yack.”
“What is ‘yack’?”
“Bavarder,” she said. She halted her swim, put her hands on his head, and dunked him into the medicine of Frenchman’s Creek, counting as she held him under, “Un . . . deux . . . trois . . . quatre . . . cinq . . . six . . . sept . . .” She let him up.
Pierre gasped for breath and whipped his long hair as Natalie blithely floated away. Swimming after her, Pierre admitted, “I’m forgetful
of you.”
“In which way?”
Wiping his hair sleek against his skull, he floated on his back. “Well, I never think about how you are feeling.”
She floated too, her pert breasts rising just above the water, her dark hair trailing out and undulating. Seriously considering him, she said, “Actually, in your own way, you never think about anyone else.”
Pierre seemed relieved by the revelation. “But yes! It is true!”
“Wait,” Natalie said. She held onto his head and dunked him again. And then she went down alongside him. And they were all ardor as they broke the surface, holding each other and kissing.
“I’m an idiot,” Pierre said. “I’m a brute. I’m a beast.”
“No more than most men,” Natalie said.
“You are too beautiful for me!”
She smiled. She touched his handsome face. “You will perhaps get less ugly as you grow older.”
She felt the tolling of her heart as each stared at the other for a moment. And then each independently went underwater.
Small ripples traveled away. Water flattened. There was silence. And then both of them slowly rose up until just their eyes were above Frenchman’s Creek. After some cautious consideration, they raised their heads to talk and Pierre became a hard and terse Western outlaw. “Let’s do it.”
And mimicking him, Natalie said, “Why not.”
They heard Dick yell, “We’re joining you!” and they turned to see him and Iona, naked on the iron bridge, their hands linked, their hearts united, and then plunging with screams of joy.
31
The grand ball that ended The Revels at the Seldom fair-grounds on Saturday night became a glorious wedding banquet for Mr. & Mrs. Clairvaux-Smith, and Mr. & Mrs. Christiansen-Tupper. Carlo’s feast was defrosted and laid out on side tables, with each course described on little cards held up by origami swans. Thousands of colored balloons filled the roof of the open-air livestock tent, American and French flags hung at the entrance, and a wooden floor was laid on the earth. Even the children wore eighteenth- and nineteenth-century French costumes, and hundreds of Nebraskans from as far away as Valentine and Omaha were smiling as the lovers strolled onto the dance floor and the deejay played Ella Fitzgerald’s version of “Isn’t It Romantic?”
Owen and Carlo were at a side table in jaunty berets and hunching over the high school gym’s microphone. “We see that Natalie and Iona have favored the chignon hairstyle,” Owen said. “And both are wearing jeweled tiaras.”
“The difference is in the dresses,” Carlo said. “Iona has chosen a lovely satin, long sleeve, Queen Anne neckline with a full skirt and pearl-beaded lace.”
Sotto voce, Owen said, “You’re shaking the table.”
“Sorry,” Carlo said, and forced down his knees with his hands.
Owen continued, “And Natalie is absolutely exquisite in a St. Tropez model bridal gown with spaghetti straps and a full skirt with a matte satin finish.”
Natalie hooked her wrists around her French husband’s neck and softly moved with him as she sang along with Ella, while Opal gripped the handle of a white movie screen and pulled it fully extended as Mrs. Christiansen switched on a high school projector and clicked to Biggy’s hokey slide photograph of Natalie, Iona, and Mrs. Christiansen crowding into an upstairs dresser mirror as they put the final touches to their hair.
Mrs. Christiansen clicked to a slide in which Dick, Owen, Carlo, and the Reverend Picarazzi were making faces as they gripped Pierre by the waist, as if trying to pull him back into the church. She then clicked to a slide of Natalie and Iona putting on garters and showing plenty of gam. Opal, Nell, Onetta, and Ursula looked on with hands to their mouths, as if shocked.
On the dance floor, Dick swung and dipped Iona as Mrs. Christiansen clicked to the wedding ceremony and a slide of Pierre standing with his hand out, waiting for the ring, while Dick, with both his trouser pockets yanked out, pretended to have lost it. She clicked to the next slide. Same pose, but roles reversed.
In the next slide, Owen and Ursula hefted feed shovels loaded with rice. They were mugging for the camera as they waited for the happy couples to descend the church steps. Mrs. Christiansen clicked again. Natalie had tossed her garter. In the scrum for it, the trucker from Sidney held it out of Carlo’s reach.
And now Natalie and Pierre were kissing, and all of Seldom had joined them on the dance floor, Carlo with Ursula, the Reverend Picarazzi with Owen’s Aunt Opal, Onetta with old Nell, all singing along with Ella Fitzgerald’s “Isn’t it romantic?”
And Biggy crouched to take a gag photograph of Owen seemingly drunk, his head flat on the table, and tipped over beside his gaping mouth was a high-shouldered bottle of red wine that would soon be distributed by the firm of Smith et Fils.
About the Author
RON HANSEN is the author, most recently, of A Stay Against Confusion: Essays on Faith and Fiction and of the novel Hitler’s Niece. His previous novel, Atticus, was a National Book Award finalist. His other highly praised works of fiction include Mariette in Ecstasy, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, Desperadoes, and the story collection Nebraska. With Jim Shepard, he edited the anthology You’ve Got to Read This: Contemporary American Writers Introduce Stories That Held Them in Awe. Ron Hansen is married to the novelist Bo Caldwell and lives in northern California, where he teaches fiction writing and literature at Santa Clara University.
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Praise for Isn’t It Romantic?
“Isn’t It Romantic? zips along like a Preston Sturges movie . . . the sentences are swift and he punctuates them with a dry wit and some genuinely droll ripostes. . . . The tiny town of Seldom is truly a funny place.”
—New York Times Book Review
“Ron Hansen’s Isn’t It Romantic? is a lively, affectionate, and often poetic romp. It made me laugh out loud.”
—Bob Kerrey, president of the New School University and former Nebraska governor and senator
“A treat. . . . [Isn’t It Romantic?] has both sophisticated and down-homey humor . . . with laugh-out-loud scenes.”
—People
“Hilarious . . . be prepared to be unexpectedly charmed, delighted, and touched.”
—Charlotte Observer
“Hansen makes it fresh, crafting a tale that reads like gold and unfolds like a laugh-out-loud film. . . . Isn’t It Romantic? lives up to the airy promise of its title and delights while doing so.”
—Minneapolis Star Tribune
“Ron Hansen . . . has given us the gift of well-wrought fun in Isn’t It Romantic? . . . full of all the romance, confusion, and poetry that comes when sophistication meets true salt-of-the-earth charm.”
—BookPage
“Ron Hansen’s fine, funny novel Isn’t It Romantic? is a light-as-a-feather mélange of romance, farce, and folksy foolishness.”
—Philadelphia Inquirer
“[A] comedy of culture shock and errors [that] never misses a punch line.”
—Denver Westward
“This light, charming, and humorous romp will bring a smile to the face of even the most love-jaded reader.”
—Library Journal
“Done with such skill and such heart that this slyly comic froth of a novel is exceptionally enjoyable.”
—Lincoln Journal Star (NE)
“A delightful surprise. . . . Hansen shows the true reach of his talent, displaying a rare, deft touch in an inspired comedy that will have readers laughing out loud. Completely charming.”
—Booklist
“Ron Hansen delivers a sweet surprise with Isn’t It Romantic?”
—Midwest Living
Also by Ron Hansen
FICTION
Hitler’s Niece
Atticus
Mariette in Ecstasy
Nebraska
The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford
Desperadoes
ESSAYS
A Stay Against Confusion: Essays on Faith and Fiction
FOR CHILDREN
The Shadowmaker
EDITOR
You’ve Got to Read This:
Contemporary American Writers Introduce Stories
That Held Them in Awe (with Jim Shepard)
You Don’t Know What Love Is:
Contemporary American Short Stories
Copyright
“Can’t Help Falling in Love” from the Paramount Picture Blue Hawaii Words and music by George David Weiss, Hugo Peretti, and Luigi Creatore Copyright © 1961 by Gladys Music, Inc.
Copyright renewed and assigned Gladys Music
All rights administered by Cherry Lane Music Publishing Company, Inc. and Chrysalis Music
International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“Isn’t It Romantic?” from the Paramount Picture Love Me Tonight
Words by Lorenz Hart
Music by Richard Rodgers
Copyright © 1932 (Renewed 1959) by Famous Music Corporation
International copyright secured. All rights reserved.
“I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry” written by Hank Williams, Sr.
Copyright © 1949, renewed 1978, Hiriam Music Acuff-Rose Music, Inc.
International Rights secured. All rights reserved.
Used with permission.
ISN’T IT ROMANTIC? Copyright © 2003 by Ron Hansen. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.