Barney's Version

by Mordecai Richler

  “Mon blood pressure est sky-high,” said the driver. “C’est le stress.”

  Knocking timorously on the door of our overnight suite in the Ritz, I braced myself, anticipating the worst, but to my amazement The Second Mrs. Panofsky greeted me with a hug, compounding my guilt. “Oh, thank God you’re safe,” she said. “I didn’t know what to think.”

  “Needed some fresh air,” I said, rocking her in my arms.

  “I’m not surprised, but —”

  “The Habs won without Beliveau and with the Rocket sitting on the bench. How about that, eh?”

  “— couldn’t you have told me? We’ve been worried sick.”

  Only then did I notice her father fulminating in a chair. “She wanted me to call the police to see if there had been an accident. I thought it might be more prescient to check out the neighbourhood bars instead.”

  “Oh, my God. Look at your knees. I’ll get a wet towel.”

  “Don’t fuss, please.” Then, beaming at her father, I said, “Would you care to join us in a nightcap before you leave?”

  “I have imbibed quite enough tonight, young man, and so, most assuredly, have you.”

  “Well, toodleloo then.”

  “Am I to credit that you were walking the streets for an hour and a half?”

  “Daddy, he’s safe and sound and that’s all that matters.”

  No sooner had he left than The Second Mrs. Panofsky lowered me into a chair, wet a towel in the bathroom, and returned to dab my scraped kneecap. “Tell me if it hurts, honeybunch, and I’ll stop.”

  “You deserve a better man than I am.”

  “But it’s too late now, isn’t it?”

  “I have behaved badly,” I said, unbidden tears streaming down my cheeks. “If you want a divorce, I will not stand in your way.”

  “Oh, you’re such a scream,” she said, kneeling to remove my shoes and socks. “What you need is some sleep.”

  “On our wedding night?”

  “I won’t tell.”

  “Oh, no,” I said, beginning to fondle her breasts, and then, apparently, I slumped back in the chair and began to snore.

  7

  I once dared to hope that Miriam and I, into our nineties, would expire simultaneously, like Philemon and Baucis. Then a beneficent Zeus, with a gentle stroke of his caduceus, would transmogrify us into two trees, whose branches would fondle each other in winter, our leaves intermingling in the spring.

  Trees remind me of the afternoon Sean O’Hearne sat with me and Miriam on the wraparound porch of our cottage in the Laurentians, looking down at the lake, where police divers had once searched for Boogie. Boogie, who, if I were to be believed, had last been seen zigzagging down the hill, racing across the dock and, dodging my bullet, plunging into the water. Revealing a surprising poetic streak, O’Hearne, eyeing me closely, indicated the trees and ventured, “I wonder what those elms would say, if they could talk.”

  “Why, that’s easy, O’Hearne,” said Miriam. “They would say, ‘We are maples.’ ”

  In the years since Boogie’s disappearance, I don’t know how many times I’ve sat on that dock, willing him to emerge safely out of the waters. Why, only the other night I dreamt that Boogie, sobered by his long swim, did in fact heave himself onto the dock. Hopping up and down on one leg, trying to shake water out of his ear.

  — Boogie, I didn’t mean it. Not one word. I don’t know what got into me.

  — Hey, we’re buddies from way back, he says, embracing me. Good thing you’re such a bad shot.

  — Right.

  Back to the real world. Knee-slapper of a story in this morning’s Gazoo that I must clip and mail to the enchanting Ms. Morgan of “Dykes on Mikes.”

  FEMINIST OUTRAGE AT CHAIN GANGS FOR WOMEN

  Male convicts in Alabama, who were put in leg irons last year, manacled together to put in twelve-hour shifts on the highways, cutting and trimming the roadsides, had petitioned the governor to say that their punishment amounts to sexual discrimination. In response, the Alabama Corrections Commissioner said, “There’s no real defence for not doing the females.” He has instructed the warden of the Julia Tutwiler State Prison for Women at Wetumpka, near Montgomery, to start a chain gang for women within three weeks. But they will not labour on the highways. Instead they will work on prison property, planting vegetable gardens, mowing grass, and picking up litter.

  Still guilt-ridden after all these years, the subject I’ve been trying to avoid until now is my disastrous honeymoon in Paris with The Second Mrs. Panofsky, its cafés haunted for me by memories of Clara, my mood tainted by my longing for Miriam. Compounding matters, a photograph of Clara was on display in the window of La Hune. She was shown seated at a table in the Mabillon and, if you looked closely, the group included Boogie, Leo Bishinsky, Hymie Mintzbaum, George Plimpton, Sinbad Vail, Cedric Richardson, and me. Only a year later Cedric joined students from Agricultural and Technical College in a sit-in at a lunch counter in a variety store in Greensboro, North Carolina. Then, in 1963 I think it was, Cedric quit Martin Luther King in favour of Malcolm X, and was next rumoured to have gone to ground somewhere in Chicago, not yet accompanied everywhere by his Fruits of the Loom51 bodyguards, or whatever the Prophet Elijah’s thugs were called. I’m running ahead of myself again.

  The photograph in La Hune was mounted atop a pile of Clara’s recently translated poems, which, if memory serves for once, had already gone into its sixth edition in the United States. By this juncture, The Virago’s Verse Book had been published in sixteen other languages and, to my astonishment, the foundation created by Norman Charnofsky was coining it in. And then, honouring Clara’s proclivities, Norman appointed a couple of black feminists to the board of directors, setting the seeds of his ruin in place.

  I had suspected a small Left Bank hotel might not suit The Second Mrs. Panofsky, so I booked us into the Crillon instead. A good thing, too, because she was still brooding about our fiasco of a wedding night, understandably so.

  I should point out that, prior to our honeymoon, the only time The Second Mrs. Panofsky and I had spent together were those three frenetic days in New York when I hardly saw her as she flitted from here to there. We had yet to get beyond groping each other, until, squirming free, she’d call, “Time out,” settling her breasts back into her bra and tugging her skirt back over her knees. “Whew! That was close.” We made love for the first time on our bed in the Crillon, where I was surprised to discover she was not a virgin.

  Taking The Second Mrs. Panofsky to Paris was a mistake. True, I was now able to afford all those fine restaurants I used to pass in 1951: Le Grand Véfour, Lapérouse, La Tour d’Argent, La Closerie des Lilas. But seated on the terrace of the Café de Flore, my bride in her finery and me in my good suit, watching the unkempt young stroll past hand in hand, I felt too much like the rich tourists Clara and I used to poke fun at when we were together. It made me ill-tempered. “Couldn’t you put that damn guidebook away while we sit here?”

  “I’m embarrassing you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like with the bidet?”

  “You didn’t have to ask the maid. I could have told you what it was for.”

  “Can you speak Hebrew?”

  “No.”

  “Have you got an M.A. from McGill?”

  “No.”

  “Am I embarrassed?”

  I began to growl.

  “We’ve already been sitting here for maybe an hour and I think you’ve said maybe eight words to me. I don’t want to appear ungrateful for so much attention, but how much longer do we sit here?”

  “One more drink.”

  “That makes eleven words. I didn’t come here to mourn the death of your first wife.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “You keep saying my father is such a snob, but you think I’m a lesser person because I thought it was a footbath. Look at yourself in the mirror, why don’t you?”

  “I don’t dare.”

  �
�Well, I’m not going to sit here any longer, watching you stare into space, because we’ve only got four more days here, and I’ve still got lots to do,” she said, pulling those cards out of her handbag, with a check-list divided into three categories: Must Do’s, Optionals, and If There’s Time. “I’ll meet you back at the hotel at seven. And it would be nice if you were still sober when we went to dinner. Let’s just say it would be a welcome change.”

  As our hotel room filled with her purchases, I began to feel like a character in that play by the Romanian, you know who I mean.52 He wrote one in which Zero Mostel turned into an elephant.53 No, a hippopotamus. The play was called Chairs, yes, that’s it, and the author’s first name was the same as that guy who managed the Expos in their early years. Gene Mauch it was. The baseball manager, not the playwright. A Romanian called Gene? Oh, what does it matter? In the play, the set fills up with furniture, until there is no room for the characters, and so it seemed in our obstacle course of a hotel room.

  I watched, bemused, as our dresser top became covered end to end with bottles of perfume, eau-de-Cologne, shampoos, and body oils; lipsticks lined up like bullets; cartons of variously scented soaps; boxes containing sprays, bath salts, and powders; a sea sponge; jars of restorative creams and tubes of mysterious ointments; eyebrow pencils; compacts and compact fillers. Here, there, and everywhere, I stumbled over boxes and bags from shops on the boulevard de la Madeleine, the rue du faubourg Saint-Honoré, the rue de Rivoli, the avenue George-V, and the boulevard des Capucines. Outfits, with matching accessories, acquired at Courrèges, Cardin, Nina Ricci. An evening bag from Lanvin. And not for nothing was The Second Mrs. Panofsky a McGill M.A. Long after I had gone to bed, she sat up carefully razoring out tell-tale couturier labels to be mailed home, and sewing in labels from Eaton’s, Ogilvy’s, and Holt Renfrew that she had brought with her from Montreal.

  We did do the Louvre, the Jeu de Paume, the Musée Rodin, where, forearmed with a list of the major works, she would have a quick glance, check it off her list, and move on to the next. We had only been in Paris for four days when, to her delight, we were able to start in on Optionals.

  I’m an impulsive man, a guy who believes in making his own mistakes rather than regretting things not done, and one of the worst was my lightning courtship and marriage to The Second Mrs. Panofsky, which doesn’t excuse my atrocious behaviour on our honeymoon. She had to be confused, as I vacillated between being morose and then, prompted by guilt, attentive beyond compare, resolved to make our union work. One night, simulating enthusiasm for her latest acquisition from Dior or Lanvin, which she had modelled for me in our room, I took her to dinner at one of the restaurants on her list, and then slyly inquired about relatives of hers I had met at our wedding, monied alrightniks I hoped never to see again, feigning interest in her garrulous responses, and, finally, as an afterthought, I said, “Oh yeah, and then it seems to me there was that girl, I forget her name, wearing a layered blue chiffon cocktail dress, who obviously considered herself quite a number, not that I did.”

  “Miriam Greenberg?”

  “Yeah, I think that was her name. Is she also a relative?”

  “Hardly. She wasn’t even invited.”

  “You mean she had the audacity to crash our —? Now I find that awfully pushy.”

  “My cousin Seymour brought her.”

  Managing a yawn, I asked, “Is he her boyfriend?”

  “How would I know?”

  “Ah, what does it matter? Let’s move on to the Mabillon for a nightcap.”

  “If you haven’t already had enough to drink, I’d rather we went to Harry’s Bar.”

  My lady of the lists had done her homework, poring over sex manuals not available in the Jewish Public Library, and making notes and diagrams on index cards. To my astonishment, she knew all about feuille de rose, gamahuche, pompoir, postillonage, soixante-neuf, sax-onus, and even the Viennese oyster, and every night I begged off attempting one or another. The Second Mrs. Panofsky went about her pleasures relentlessly. Life, for her, was an exam to be passed.

  “What could she see in your cousin Seymour?”

  “Are we finished now?” she asked, wiping her mouth with the bed-sheet.

  “You set the agenda here, not me.”

  “Feh. I can’t imagine what people see in it.” She brushed her teeth. She gargled. Then she was back. “Now what was it that was so important?”

  “It’s of no importance whatsoever, but I was just wondering what she could see in your cousin Seymour, he’s such a prick.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, I can never remember her name. The girl in the layered blue chiffon dress.”

  “Ah ha. Ah ha.” Glaring at me, she demanded, “I want you to tell me what I wore to lunch today?”

  “A dress.”

  “Yeah, sure. A dress. Not my nightgown. What colour was it?”

  “Oh, come on.”

  “Have you got Miriam Greenberg on the brain or something?”

  “Calm down. I was just wondering what she could see in Seymour.”

  “He drives an Austin-Healey. He keeps his sailboat, it sleeps six, in the West Indies somewhere. He’s going to inherit like a block of Sherbrooke Street and I don’t know how many shopping centres. Some prick.”

  “Are you saying she’s a fortune-hunter?”

  “You know how many times I’ve seen her in that same layered blue dress you can’t get out of your head, it’s maybe ten years old, prêt-à-porter, probably picked up in a January sale in Macy’s. Why shouldn’t she be interested in bettering herself?”

  Then there were her daily phone calls to her mother.

  “I’ve got to be brief, we’re just on our way out. No, not for dinner, it’s only seven o’clock here. Apéritifs, my dear. A café in Montparnasse. The Dôme, I think it’s called. Yes, I remember what Aunt Sophie said, and I only drink the bottled water. Last night? Oh, we had dinner at this terrific restaurant called La Tour d’Argent, you’d love it, they take you up in an elevator, and you look out and see Notre-Dame all lit up, I thought Charles Laughton would be swinging from one of the gargoyles any minute. Only kidding. Their specialty is pressed duck, and each one is numbered and they give you a postcard with your number on it, and I’m going to mail it to you this morning. You know who was sitting there, only two tables away from us. Audrey Hepburn. Yes, I know Jewel is a big fan, but I’ve already got something for her. I couldn’t. It would have embarrassed him. I’m not even allowed to ask for a menu for a souvenir. I never lived in Paris on ten cents a day, so to his way of looking I’m like a war criminal, maybe worse. Only joking. No, Maw, we’re getting on fine. What? Oh, I was wearing my new Givenchy, you just wait till you see me in it, and do give Daddy a big hug and tell him thank you a thousand times. What? Oh, it’s a simple black silk and wool, with a bow marking the high waist and the hem raised just to cover the knee. No, the ‘sack’ is out. Finished. But don’t you say a word to Pearl or Arlene, let them find out on their own now that they’ve spent so much on what’s now really last year’s shmatas. Will you stop worrying, please. When we come in every night, no matter how late, they lock up my pearls for me in their safe. Yes yes yes. The camera too, I remember how expensive it was. In fact, I leave the camera there. He won’t let me walk down the street with it, somebody might mistake us for tourists. Oh, let me see. I started with the smoked salmon, it was mouth-watering. No, they don’t serve it with cream cheese here. No, Barney had the snails in their shells. Yes, I know. But he likes them. No, I wouldn’t. Or the oysters, honestly. I had to tell him to move the bread away from me or I’d eat the whole basket, and the butter, it’s from Normandy, and it melts in your mouth. Then we both had the duck, and crêpes for dessert. Oh, I don’t know, but it was red and cost him plenty, not that he’d complain about it, but he sure impressed the wine waiter, who looked at us at first like he’d smelled something bad. Yes, with his coffee and cigar. Cognac, a special one, no two. They wheel over this huge wagon full of bo
ttles. No, they don’t heat the snifters here. Yes, but Ruby Foo’s isn’t the be-all and end-all, and nowhere I’ve been in Paris do they heat the glasses. Yes, two is what he had, I said. What? Yeah, I’ll tell him, but it’s not like he had to drive us home and we are on our honeymoon. Enjoy? Right. It can lead to what in middle age? Gwan. Dr. Seligman told you that? Really? Well, that’s certainly not his problem so far, knock wood. What do you mean, you’re offended? I’m a married woman now. It’s allowed. Yes, Maw. Sure. Well, I shook him awake at seven, then I brushed my teeth and washed my hair and, guess what, we showered together, don’t tell Daddy, he’d be shocked. And I’ll bet you’re blushing right now. Only kidding. You should see the bathrobes we’ve got here, and the soaps are from Lanvin. Yeah, sure I will. In fact I’ve already stuffed three bars for you into one of my suitcases, which reminds me I’d better buy another one today for my new things. Maw, I know Uncle Herky could get it for me wholesale, but I happen to need it here and now. I’m not being impatient. I’m not raising my voice. You’re imagining. What? Yes, the waist is back and I’ve still got mine. I am not being snarky. How many times do I have to tell you that you have a terrific figure for a mature woman. It’s from Dior. Yeah, I wore it this morning. Boy, did I ever turn lots of heads. It’s pale blue shantung pleats with a cape collar, and over it I wore my new coat, it’s a Chanel, a cardigan, nubby beige wool piped with navy blue silk. I’ll wear it to the temple on Rosh Hashanah, Arlene will die on the spot. And wait till you see my shoes and the handbag that goes with. You tell Daddy he’s spoiling me rotten, but I’m not complaining. Don’t say a word, but I bought him a silk foulard at Hermès and pearl cufflinks and a shirt at Cardin, and I’m not saying what I got you, but I think you’ll be pleased. Maw, I swear I’m not being sarcastic about your figure. I’m sure most women your age envy you. No, I didn’t forget Jewel or Irving. That wouldn’t be ‘just like me.’ I’m getting everything on your list. Maw, stop it. Nobody will be sending photographs to Rabbi Hornstein. Of course we lock the door before we get into the shower together, but it’s not a criminal offence in this day and age. There’s nothing wrong with taking pleasure in our bodies. Yes yes yes. I know you have my best interests at heart, but let’s not get into that one, please. I did not accuse you of nagging. What do you mean it’s in my tone of voice? Don’t start. Oh, Barney saw an item in the Herald-Tribune that the Canadiens might be trading Doug Harvey, and he wants to know if it’s true. I know you never read the sports pages, but it wouldn’t hurt you to look it up. Maw, I can’t tell you how beautiful it is here. What? That’s not true. I am not suggesting that Montreal is ugly. Boy, are you ever touchy today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting your period. I am not being snide. I know it will happen to me too one day, and when it does, I hope I will be more accepting than you are. There you go again. It’s the only voice I have, and if you don’t care for the tone I guess I’d better hang up right now. Okay, okay. I apologize. No, he hates shopping, but of course we met for lunch. What? It’s called the Brasserie Lipp. He had the choucroute, they’re famous for it. No, wait, he started with oysters. Maw, I didn’t. But, to be honest, it wasn’t on religious principle. I had the hard-boiled egg with mayonnaise and the salmon with French fried potatoes. No, he had a beer and I drank white wine. Maw, it was only a glass. I won’t be joining the AA when I get home. Oh, he went back to the hotel for his nap. Good thing he didn’t know I was going shopping for bras and lingerie, because that’s the only time he’ll come with me. They get him a chair, and he sits there smiling like the cat who swallowed the canary, watching the women come and go. Maw, would you rather he was like your poor cousin Cyril? No, he’s not a homosexual. How could he be? A member of our esteemed family. He’s just a fifty-five-year-old bachelor who still lives with his mother and subscribes to every bodybuilding magazine in print, and was asked to stop hanging around the YMHA swimming pool when all those schoolkids were there. I beg your pardon. Okay, he wasn’t asked. That was gossip. He simply stopped going. But, in my opinion, we’ve all done him enormous psychological damage by making him pretend he’s something he isn’t. No, you’re wrong there. Barney thinks he’s very witty. He happens to like him. They’ve been out to dinner together more than once. How about that? Tonight? There’s a tap-dancer appearing at a club in Pigalle who Barney wants to see. Yes, Maw. He’s a hockey fan and he likes tap-dancing, do you think I should get a divorce? Now I really really have to hang up, we’re just on our way out. Barney sends love to you and Daddy. No, I’m not making it up. He asked me to say that. We’ll talk again tomorrow.”