Fortunately, she was not a dormant volcano with geological issues, but an intelligent, self-controlled woman, who could silence the conflicts just before a dramatic eruption would destroy the make-believe world she created. She compromised, of course, but not without a sense of loss. This loss was deeply personal and painful, and she also realized her own weakness when she failed to assert herself.
Having a dinner that was almost ceremonial with guests, who possessed the high art of talking about meaningless platitudes, lacked just about everything to make the occasion into a special holiday. The small pause between the superbly poached salmon and the roasted pheasants would hardly be the time for taking stock, for remembering the origin and the meaning of the holiday, or for reconnecting with loved ones. Perfectly insincere conversation was in order, and over the rims of wine glasses, veiled but acute observations of the ever-changing power structure would be carefully registered. It was essential to know, who talked to whom, whose jokes and anecdotes were most loudly appreciated.
With some irony, and not in harmony with her age of thirty-some years, or with her privileged status in life, she recalled the lines from Elliot’s Prufrock:
“In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo…”
Perhaps the word ‘chattering’ would be more appropriate, chattering like monkeys or magpies, she thought.
As these dinners progressed and the noble wines loosened tongues, banalities innocent of original or personal thoughts, were voiced. One could catch snatches of the conversation by the women:
“…have you heard Ashkenazy play...”
“…If we compare him with Zurbaran...”
“…at the country club…”
“…the terminal illness of our pessimistic culture…”
“…and then my butler…”
“…a most fascinating poet. He has the world-view of Jonathan Livingstone Seagull…”
“…just the other day Sunny said…”
“…Becket said it clearly that…”
“…which cruise did you choose?”
The men would self-righteously declare in highly cultured voices their dedication for increased social care, for better health services, elimination of unemployment, and of course for change, and finally for the superior education of children. To this they would piously add, “who are truly the hope and the future of our nation”. In general, they would profess the earnest wish to make the country a better, safer, greener place, and the government the most ideal institution ever formed. Peace on earth, of course was also included in the package. By the time the platters of cheese and fruit were served, they would talk respectfully of ethical values and secular humanism that could take the place of religion; they would all agree that a better world is about to be born and then piously drink to that. Novis ordo seclorum, a new order is beginning, so it is written on every one dollar bill. Her guests not only subscribed to this, but were convinced that they are the ones who would create it.
They would talk slowly, deliberately as if rehearsing a campaign speech, or introducing a new project at a board meeting, yet all knew that their dramatic rhetoric hid the real issues, which were to get ahead, to be reelected and to stay in power at all costs. They were exquisitely well mannered, fabulously rich and powerful, but their conscience was about as delicate as the hind part of a pachyderm, and it would not disturb them too severely when the only way up was to step on the head of a less fortunate one. They talked smoothly in a refined way, never deviating from their script; yet, what they said was old and worn. It was amusing to watch how carefully they avoided anything that could compromise them. Smooth as snakes they were, and about as full of goodwill. Nobody spoke of the bitter struggles to get ahead, to win, and to make it to the top. Yet, they all knew that this elegant dinner was carefully orchestrated to rehearse the roles, and to try out the obvious or hidden strengths. Love and peace on earth and the delights of Christmas morning belonged to another life, to a different social group. She was frankly tired of the grand posing and pretensions behind which a plethora of sorry selfishness was hiding.
She knew that feast days are essential for the survival of the soul, because the red-letter days are the emotional supports for all the gray days that follow it. The holidays confirm love, express gratitude and happiness, and they provide time for the occasional summing up. It is important to know where one has been and where the road would lead. Her glamorous dinner party did not and could not serve these purposes.
She let her arms drop and for a moment she seemed broken and defeated. Even the elegant surrounding could not quite erase the shadow of hopelessness verging on panic. With each passing year, the result of this reckoning was becoming more hopeless, more meaningless. Her time was ticking away at an alarming rate, but she alone heard it. Clyde, usually wonderfully responsive to his constituents, failed to hear it or to consider her more or less silent pleas.
“Christmas has become meaningless and boring,” she said quietly to Clyde just a few weeks ago, hinting at the bitter turmoil she felt. “Christmas was the best and the most fun when we were young. There were family get-togethers, caroling, midnight service, wonderful feasts, Christmas balls, gifts, expectations, snow, stockings hung, The holiday was alive and in the darkness of winter promised a wonderful future.” She paused but since he did not respond, she continued. “The promises, whether romantic or religious, have disappeared or remained unfulfilled. I no longer feel anything. Perhaps it is children who make the holiday into what it should be, and there are none around here. The holiday is quite dead now. On the bedside monitor the ailing holiday’s vital wave is stretching into a fatally straight line. Might as well unplug the life sustaining equipment and let it expire in dignity. What we do have now is just make-believe and pretensions. Lots of tinsel and ho-ho-ho. And a dinner for strangers. The Baby and the Three Wise Men have become politically incorrect and they receded God only knows where. Instead of them, we have the national debt, the global warming, terrorism, the threatening figures on Wall Street, and the next election. Whoever was in charge of this bargain did not know his stuff well and was rather poor in his negotiating skills. We are shortchanged and betrayed.”
“You are far too young for these sentiments, my dear. Leave these to the experienced generation, to the old boys. They will figure it out and will find the solution. The cynical attitude does not become you. Nothing permanent or worthwhile was ever built on cynicism. You are made to be happy, carefree and hopeful. And gorgeous.” She smiled at that, because she was expected to do so and he hugged her with relief and gratitude, because once again the confrontation was skillfully averted.
Of course, he knew well enough what she was after, but prudently chose to ignore it. They discussed the topic before, but still unresolved, shelved it again. Nevertheless, with inordinate stubbornness she dragged it out from time to time, and while not letting it grow into an unpleasant issue, which would have been at odds with their polite and almost loving conduct with each other, both knew that obstinate silence is not going to solve the problem. She also guessed that he was not ready to solve it. She wanted children. He obviously did not. He already had children from another marriage. She also craved self-fulfillment, whatever she understood under the term, but that was not the role he expected of her.
“You never complain, Lena,” Adrienne told her once. “But I feel an undercurrent of dissatisfaction. What went wrong? Clyde? Or the marriage?”
“Nothing to worry about. My marriage is a classic example of modern conjugal bliss, based on respect and misunderstood love, complicated with misjudgment and false hopes. Our excellent partnership produced high social standing, gave us considerable financial security, also provided insincere social and intellectual refinements.”
“Sounds bleak enough.”
“Is not. I live in a big house in a trendy neighborhood, drive a foreign luxury car, have a competent housekeeper, an excellent cook, a butler, a gardener, who doubles as cha
uffeur and butler, and we go on vacations to the right places. We move in what is called good society and have season’s tickets to several halls dedicated to the Muses. Our library is stacked with excellent books; my dressing room is bursting with designer clothes. The expensive furniture and the paintings on the walls are so much part of my life that I no longer notice them. Do you call this life bleak?”
“Under certain circumstances, definitely.”
Lena could not think of anything that would acquit her of the impotent meekness in accepting the aridity of this marriage. Somewhere at one level she felt that she was at least partially responsible for it, but did not have the wisdom to know where she failed, or how to bring content into their relationship.
“You are very perceptive and I am quite defenseless. The truth is that without children, it is a dead end,” she finally said. They did not pursue the topic any further and Lena was left with the uncomfortable thought that her friend did not approve of the way she was handling life. It would have been disloyal to openly admit that despite his kindness and stated concerns about the welfare of his young wife, in reality he ignored or denied her most important desires. His decrees were not carved in stone, but they were just as binding.
She now glanced at her husband and moved closer to the fireplace as if the burning logs could warm her inner chill. So strange, she thought. How can life be so empty and painful, when at the same time it offers such comforts and pleasures? Is dissatisfaction culturally ingrained in everyone, save saints and those who aim to be, or am I unnaturally emotional, she wondered and knew that Clyde would agree with her conclusion.
He removed from his pocket a slim box, packed in designer paper.
“I guess we won’t have a private moment together tonight, so I would like to give you my present now. I believe it will go well with your gown and with the general glitter of the season. I suppose according to your present melancholic mood you would label this as just another form of dust, but I hope you will like it anyhow. And please, don’t whisper, ’Darling, you shouldn’t have. ’You know that I should have, and you also know that you’ll enjoy it.”
She took out the sinfully large diamond pendant from the box and he put it around her neck, being careful not to mess up her carefully built coiffeur. She was, of course, delighted.
“Clyde, it is gorgeous; although, it is not dust. It is carbon of a sort. You know, just coal, but a special kind, with a dramatic past. It will only be dust when I burn it, but it needs lots of heat and lots of oxygen to do that. More than what I have at my disposal.”
“You dramatize. But drama is always very attractive when beautiful women are involved. It goes so well with your atoms and with your spaces. You were made for drama and for diamonds. I’m glad you like the pendant, because it is rather difficult to find a gift for a woman, who has everything,” he teased. You are so wrong, she argued silently, but kept the smile on her face. It would be so easy to please me. All you would have to do is give me a child, or at least permit me to pursue my career.
“I know what you mean” she responded instead, keeping her tone pleasant. “You are not exactly easy to surprise either. I hope my gift won’t shock you too much.”
He smiled as he unwrapped the gift box. She was inventive, had the imagination and good taste of an artist, and her gifts were always delightful and witty. She watched his face as he opened the double photo frame, hinged together like a book. His initial smile turned into a bewildered grin, and then he looked helplessly at her.
“What…what did you mean by this?”
She shrugged.
“I’m not sure. I wanted to make a memorial of myself to you. A sort of silent, pictorial statement to speak for me after I am gone. So you remember me as I was in the beginning and also how I would be at the end.”
“Gone where?”
“Oh, I don’t know, Clyde. Somewhere. You might tire of me, and exchange me for a new wife. I won't stay young and beautiful for the rest of my life, you know. People exchange cars, houses, jobs, religion— also wives. You have done it before. I want to make sure you remember that I was here and that I was beautiful. Or perhaps I planned this, because I understood subconsciously that I needed an antidote against my latent vanity. Perhaps it was essential to remind not you, but rather me that time passes and beauty wanes. Consider it a sophisticated graffiti with a pointed message.”
“Forgive my dear, but I don’t always comprehend you.”
“No need for that. Most women are not understood, or else are misunderstood, but gradually they get used to it. In the end we just want to be loved.” He had nothing to say to this. Either he was too absorbed by her gift, or else it was beyond him to make the love declaration, which is what she actually wanted.
The idea of the two photos was a sudden inspiration. The cosmetic salon, where she paid her weekly visits for the preservation of beauty and youth, offered a promotion gimmick to the clients. The offer was to try out a magic facial makeover which could turn even ugly ducklings into swans and old women into glamorous divas, so the advertisement promised. For this purpose, the salon engaged a famous makeup artist, who used the human face as a sculptor would use marble or a painter his palette. For years he was working in the movie industry and learned to make ugly beautiful or to devastate something perfect. He was truly a master of this make-believe art. Lena chose both extremes of his skill.
First, he dipped into his magical paint boxes to make her look as wonderful as any overpaid megastar at an Oscar ceremony. After he was done, she gazed with disbelief into the mirror. Beauty indeed was only an illusion, and apparently much easier to acquire than most of the things humans admire and covet. It is only a question of the right paints and a skillful visage maker. The professional make-up was pure magic. Although naturally beautiful, she was never as shimmering as the face smiling back at her from the mirror.
She then went with her perfect face to the city’s glamour-photographer, who posed her in irresistible postures. What the make-up did to her face, the cleverly angled lights accented perfectly. As a result, any of the photos would have done credit to a high gloss magazine’s cover. In the end, she chose the most seductive one.
After her “glamour session”, she marched back to the cosmetic establishment, and demanded that the makeup artist convert her face to that of an old, life-worn woman. He was incredulous and horrified, but the request was challenging and he worked at the transformation with increasing enthusiasm and great skill. When ready, she still looked like herself, but her face now showed all the signs of a difficult life. All the sorrows, the losses, the disappointments were painted on her lovely face. The inner glow, that seemed to reflect a secret joy and which made her slightly slanted eyes so remarkable in her youth, was gone in the new face. The full, readily smiling lips acquired a bitter downward curve. The skin, no longer elastic, was marred by liver-spots and with deep parallel lines from nose to lips, and from the corners of the lips to the base of the chin. The cheeks appeared hollow, the troubles and disappointments of the long years spread a dark veil over her face. The make-up man knew all the tricks, and used them freely. When she returned to the photographer for a second session, he was just as shocked at her looks as the makeup artist was at her request. However, she was satisfied, because this was exactly what she wanted. She posed sitting quietly with hands folded as in prayer. When the proofs were ready she chose the one showing the most tear and wear.
Now the two Lenas looked from the frames at a shaken man. The perfect face on the one side was youth and promises caught at the very best moment; the other Lena apparently fought life bravely but lost the battle. In the old face the lack of happiness did not necessarily spell bitterness, only regret and acceptance, which are just other names for hopelessness.
“Are you unhappy?” He asked with a rare show of sincere empathy.
“No, of course not.”
“Then why?”
“I told you.”
He looked at the two pictures aga
in and shook his head.
“In this second one, you look disappointed. Beaten.”
“At that age, I would be.”
“Look around you, and be honest. Does your life look like you are heading for a beating?”
“Clyde, don’t you see? All this around us is through you. Every accomplishment, every triumph is yours. This house and everything in it, is all you. Where does it leave me? I do not exist. Once beauty and figure are gone, what is left of me? I will be useless and wasted.”
“First, remember that we are a team. What I accomplish is also your triumph. Second, you are planning to write a book, and when it is in print, you will get your share of acknowledgement and the sense of accomplishment you seem to crave. In addition, why worry about the loss of youth? You will be beautiful even when you are a hundred.”
“Kind of you to say it, but honestly, when did you last see a polite teenager or a beautiful, desirable woman past the age of ninety? Anyhow, there is a perverse rule that all this is temporary. It will go soon enough to the same place where time goes. And when I am a hundred years old, beaten, wrinkled, and arthritic, you won’t be around to tell me that I am still beautiful.” He shook his head again and replaced the photos into the gift box.
“I’ll check the bar,” he said and removed himself from a potentially unpleasant confrontation. He was disturbed and forgot to thank for the gift.
TWO
She had no intention to have a pointless argument with him. He was a nice, comfortable man, but she learned soon enough that her troubles were her own concerns, not his, and she did not expect him to untangle her psychological knots.
She was relieved when he turned away. His clear, penetrating eyes would have discovered that she was hiding an uncomfortable secret—the first and only one in more than half dozen years of marriage. Secretiveness was most distressing to her, because she believed in open communication and honesty. Lies and secrets are toxic in any relationship, but are absolutely lethal in a marriage. It was disturbing and dishonest enough that she played a role, made up of part truth and part pretense, but she drew the line there and never wavered in a “this far but no farther” creed. When she was a little girl, her mother used to say that it was easy to detect when she told a lie, because it was written all over her face, and was especially readable in her eyes. After absorbing this information, whenever she told a fib she turned away and secretly wiped her face and blinked her eyes to get rid of the telltale writing. Old habits and beliefs are hard to erase; even now as a sophisticated adult, she was afraid that he could see the writing on her face and detect her secret. This was unnerving. It was better that those clear, gray eyes were now focused on the contents and arrangements of the bar.
The Reluctant Trophy Wife Page 2