Foreign Exposure

by Lauren Mechling

  On the short walk to the party, she related her adventures in mime class to me, and then I described in detail all the fabulous A-ha! colleagues she was about to meet. “Anthony might seem stuck-up at first, but give him a chance—he’s just very, very British. And scary smart. And beyond adorable, too, like a grown-up schoolboy. Or almost grown-up.”

  “I’m telling Boris you said that.”

  I shrugged. “I hope you do. I last heard from him five days ago, and it was a totally impersonal description of Saint Petersburg’s white nights. He copied three other people into the e-mail.”

  “That’s totally low. You know who’s another recycled-e-mail offender? Pia. She doesn’t CC; she just copies the text of one e-mail and pastes it into separate but identical messages to ten of her nearest and dearest. She just did it with an e-mail about the Pazzolini family reunion that she sent to me and Jess.”

  “The one about the aunt who lied about needing a wheelchair?”

  “You got it, too? Shame on her!”

  The ICA was located at the start of the Mall, a long, tree-lined promenade, the sort of grand avenue that simply doesn’t exist in the New World. Its pronunciation—the “Mell”—is also uniquely Old World. “Do you think the queen will be there?” Lily asked as we turned off majestic Trafalgar Square. She was pointing in the distance at Buckingham Palace, the queen’s residence.

  “If so, we’d never know. Everyone would just assume she’s a drag queen.”

  Lily giggled. “Totally. Her first opportunity to experience life on the other side.”

  When we got to the ICA, the main gallery was already packed. Above our heads was a birdcage containing pigeons with artificially hot pink feathers. A sign designated them as “Her Royal Highness’s Racing Pigeons.” The cross-dressing royal impersonators stood much taller than everyone else (with the exception of yours truly). Some had on white pancake makeup and stiff Renaissance collars over supershort chiffon tutus and tights, while others sported silk dresses and massive gilded handbags. Among the partygoers in regular evening attire I spotted Dicky Faircrust, the royal watcher I’d met at the Foxes’. He stood against the back wall, sipping a pink cocktail and looking appalled.

  Once we’d found a comfortable spot, I stood on my tiptoes and searched for my A-ha! colleagues; I couldn’t wait for Lily to meet them. She might not fall for Anthony, but she’d definitely appreciate Ian’s outrageous safari costume. I’d scanned half the room when my eyes alighted on a familiar face, barely visible in a dark corner diagonal across the gallery. “Omigod, it’s Pippa!” I cried. “What’s she doing here?”

  “Who knows?” Lily said without following my bugged-out eyes. “Crazy bohemian bash with massive press coverage—why wouldn’t she be here? Hey, what say we go grab some grub? Screw my diet—those dumplings look totally delish.”

  I nodded but stood paralyzed, watching my beloved hostess Pippa confer in the shadows with Mario, her creepy BBC underling who’d taken such a liking to Lily at the Foxes’ Saturday lunch. He’d found a new friend, it seemed: Pippa was laughing as Mario’s hand traced slow spirals down her arm. When he leaned in and whispered into her ear, she laughed so riotously that she almost overturned her champagne flute.

  Maybe this is what people do at transvestite royal balls, laugh and chatter and spill champagne, but Pippa’s behavior still seemed off somehow. She was a supremely capable woman, rich and powerful, not a person who allowed things to happen to her—particularly not with a gross man with a comical pencil mustache. As I watched her tip her face upward to graze Mario’s neck with her nose, I knew with a deep certainty that I’d seen something I shouldn’t have seen. And, with an equal certainty, I knew I didn’t want Pippa to know I’d seen it.

  I went over to Lily, who was polishing off a tray of dumplings. “Let’s get out of here,” I hissed.

  “But we just got—”

  “I’m serious. I feel like I’m about to faint.”

  “But what about the colleagues you’re always raving about? Don’t I get to meet them?”

  “You will, I promise. I’m just nauseated and need some air. I’ll take you for ice cream.”

  “You do look slightly green,” Lily said finally. “OK, as long as you’re not, like, embarrassed of me or anything.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  On our way out of the gallery, I glanced back over my shoulder at Pippa. She was still laughing with her mouth hanging wide open, and Mario had moved his palm to the small of her back. The contents of my stomach sloshed up, and for a second there,. I really did come close to fainting.

  From: “Rschulman”

  To: “Mimicita86”

  Date: July 23, 4:32 p.m.

  Subject: Check in

  Dear Mimi,

  Thanks for your last note. It sounds as if you’re doing well and succeeding in the work-sphere. Glad to hear it. Likewise delighted you made it to the Tate. A-plus in initiative, duly noted. My studies here are proceeding quite nicely. Gregorious, the male monkey, managed to locate a blue doughnut toy I’d hidden behind a miniature staircase, and there’s so much data to sift through now. Maurice sends his best. He’s been working on some papers but has gotten distracted lately by his discovery of Dahlem’s Ethnographic Museum. An exhibition of sloth heads has really captivated him, and he’s there most afternoons. I hope he can incorporate it into his papers somehow—I want him to get the most out of our stay here.

  The M-Cs are coming over for dinner tonight. I’ll tell them you say hello, no ifs ands or buts.

  Love, Mom

  P.S. You haven’t mentioned your summer reading. Am curious to hear what’s on your nightstand. Let me know if you need any more recommendations.

  On the Master’s Couth

  IN THE WEEK FOLLOWING THE CROSS-DRESSING royals party, I began to have great difficulty looking Pippa in the eye. To steer clear of my surrogate mother, I avoided the kitchen and started spending more time in my fourth-floor bedroom, reading the Martin Amis novels Anthony had recommended or listening to BBC dramas on a battery-operated radio I’d taken from the closet in the bathroom down the hall.

  As my relationship with Pippa disintegrated, my relationship with my biological mother was slowly improving. Diplomatic Dad had been doing his utmost to smooth over the fallout of my abrupt departure from Berlin, and whenever we talked, he’d relay some kind message from my mom: that she missed me, that she realized she’d made some mistakes. Though I’m sure he grossly exaggerated every sentiment, his stint as a goodwill ambassador was working wonders. Still, even after several brief e-mails and Sunday-night phone conversations, I was a little surprised when Mom called Penny’s extension at A-ha! early on Thursday morning.

  It was our first direct contact since the night I’d arrived in London, but Mom saw no need for preliminary chitchat. “I’m through with the Meyerson-Cullens,” she hissed as soon as I picked up. “Americans at their most offensive.”

  “What?! I thought they were your favorite compatriots.”

  “So did I,” Mom said, “at least until we had them over the other night. I tell you, Mimi, they simply couldn’t have been ruder. First, Debbie had the gall to call five minutes before they were expected for dinner to ask if it was OK if they didn’t bring wine since they weren’t planning on drinking any. I told her of course she didn’t have to bring wine and can you believe it—she took my words at face value! Then, the second they got there, she changed her mind and asked if I couldn’t give her a ‘sprinkle’ of Chardonnay. Not only that, but Alan decided it’d be hilarious to slap Maurice on the shoulder every time the subject of his chronic back pain came up.”

  “Which was often, I’ll bet,” I said.

  “It’s been obvious from the get-go that Alan has real jealousy issues with Maurice, but that doesn’t excuse his callous behavior, it really doesn’t.”

  I started laughing, picturing this dinner table scene, When Mom, with no preamble, announced that she was planning a weekend trip to London. An
d not at some indeterminate time later in the summer, but in approximately twenty-four hours. “Sorry to spring it on you like this, but you know how impulsive your old mom can be. I miss old London town, and I really had a hankering for some mother-daughter bonding,” she said, going on to explain that she could write off the trip by attending a psychology lecture Saturday morning at the University College of London. “It’s on externalized family systems—you’re welcome to come.”

  Quick and efficient, without gauging my reaction, Mom gave me the address of her hotel. “It’s called the Great Briton. It might look a tad shabby from the outside, but you can’t beat the location, and they have a great all-inclusive deal. You in, Cinnamon?”

  Still reeling from the shock, I quietly accepted. A weekend away from the Foxes might be a welcome change. The Lily situation was still a little shaky after the ICA event. Bizarrely, she’d convinced herself that I didn’t consider her cool enough to meet my A-ha! friends. Though I repeatedly dismissed this charge as insane, I still couldn’t answer her honestly when she asked me, “So why did we leave, then?”

  As it turned out, “a tad shabby” was a very generous description of my mother’s hotel. The Great Briton occupied a creaky row house that had seen its last paint job in the early 1970s. The lobby was as narrow as a gangway, crowded with life-size white marble figurines of Great Britons ranging from Winston Churchill to David Beckham. The receptionist, an older woman with a foot-high red beehive, seemed harassed by the necessity of putting down her copy of the Sun to help me locate my mother on the guest register. “Schulman, is it? Let’s have a look. Here we are now, that’s C-2.” She dialed Mom’s room and frowned. “Line’s engaged. We’ll have another go in five minutes’ time.”

  “Can I just go and knock on her door? She’s expecting me; I’m her daughter.”

  “Not possible, I’m afraid. We have tightened security.” She suggested I sit down, motioning to a beat-up armchair underneath a hulking bust of Charles Darwin. The seat’s broken springs hurt my butt, and I waited for the receptionist to begin heavy-breathing into the Sun crossword before sneaking down the hall to the guest rooms.

  “It’s raining daughters!” Mom cried when she threw open the door to her room and hugged me. Much to my shock, she was wearing khaki pants and a white silk shirt with no words on it. She looked almost, well, normal. “I was just talking to Ariel,” she said. “She and Decibel are having a fabulous time signing musicians in Ibiza, and she’s fallen in love with sardines!”

  “Yuck,” I said, dropping my duffel bag to the floor. “Well, at least she’s eating something.”

  Mom, whose attention span hadn’t increased in my absence, shook out her hair and asked, “So what do you think of the new ’do? Not too much of a statement, is it? I let Dagmar take me to his salon.”

  I looked at her hair, seeking out wild new streaks or curly extensions, but it seemed to be the exact same monkish bowl cut she’d had since my infancy. “It looks so much fresher,” I lied. “Nice job.”

  “No, really?” She squirmed happily. “As for you, Miss Moonbeam, aren’t you looking terrific! Even in drizzly London, yoúr freckles haven’t gone into hiding!”

  I chose to ignore this dubious compliment, and Mom went on. “Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m famished. I have a voucher for the Café Great Briton, or would you prefer to venture outside?”

  I picked the latter option, and we walked over to Goodge Street, which changed names about five times before running into Edgware Road. On the hourlong walk, I was impressed by how well Mom seemed to know central London. She took me to the exact same Lebanese restaurant she remembered from the fellowship year that she spent in London in the early 1970s, right after finishing college. “Oh, isn’t this exciting!” she squealed as we stepped inside.

  Every table inside the brightly lit restaurant had a little plastic sign with a number on it, presumably to help the waiters keep their orders straight. That night the precaution seemed unnecessary, given that the only other diners were a table of guys in Manchester United shirts. Mom handled the ordering, and over delicious hummus and lamb kebabs, she astonished me by asking me questions about my life in London. Could I handle the third-rate plumbing? Had I been to Windsor Castle? Did I love crumpets as much as she did and did I want to stay here forever?

  Weirder still, she wasn’t just asking questions—she seemed genuinely interested in my answers. I responded with growing disbelief; curiosity about other people wasn’t usually my mom’s specialty. “You feeling OK, Mom?” I asked at one point.

  “I’m great, thanks. Make that ‘tip-top,’” she added in a hammy English accent. “Why?”

  “You seem a little, I don’t know, un-you.”

  “Un-me. It’s more like I’m more me than I’ve been in a long time,” Mom said, then with no transition started telling me about her cranky ninety-year-old tutor at King’s College from way back when. “He didn’t believe in giving women work of any substance, so I became excellent at making tea—always pour the milk in after the hot water. I didn’t mind; I loved it here. We almost moved here when you were little, you know. If I hadn’t gotten that offer from Rice, you might have had one of those tip-top accents yourself.”

  “That’s news to me,” I said, genuinely surprised by this information. “But I don’t get it. When I first told you I was staying in London, you said it was overpriced and underrated.”

  “Did I?” Mom smiled dimly. “Well, maybe I was jealous—wished I could’ve done the same thing myself.” She sighed and clasped her hands together. “It looks like that’ll never happen now. Sometimes, Mimi, what seem like the tiniest little life choices can determine a lot more than you could ever predict.” To my quizzical glance, she said, “You’ll see what I mean more when you get older.” She sighed again, twirling a triangle of pita bread in the yogurt dip.

  Then, perhaps to explain her increasingly strange behavior, Mom suddenly announced that she was “bushed” and needed to “hit the sack” right away. We took a cab back to the Great Briton to find our room dark as a bat cave. I tucked myself into my cot and immediately passed out. I slept through the night, and even through Mom’s lecture the next morning.

  Over a late breakfast in the repulsive Café Great Briton, Mom—who had again dressed with remarkable care in a navy pantsuit—suggested we make a pilgrimage to Sigmund Freud’s house in Hampstead. She’d visited it a million times already, but according to her, “That place never loses its magic. Besides,” she went on bouncily, “no daughter of mine is permitted to spend a summer in London without paying a visit to the master!”

  “You sound like a religious freak,” I observed through a mouthful of syrupy baked beans.

  “Works for me! Means I haven’t lost my fire.”

  After a quick aerobic stroll around Russell Square, we took a cab north to Hampstead. Like me on my first morning in town, Mom couldn’t help commenting on the price of the trip, but when we got out on the shady residential street where Freud spent the last two years of his life, she recovered her good spirits.

  Perhaps because I’d expected to waddle behind Mom while she gasped at boring documents behind glass, I was pleasantly surprised by the museum. Freud, it turned out, didn’t collect just lunatics but antiques and African sculptures as well. Mantelpieces and tables supported vases and sphinxes, a mummy covering festooned a wall, and an arresting statue of Athena stood sentinel on his desk. But what most thrilled Mom was Freud’s couch. “Just look at it!” she cried. “All the revelations that took place here!”

  A tour group of senior citizens scuttled cautiously around the raving American, but Mom gave no indication of noticing. “They have the same pillows and everything! Do you realize what a huge deal this is?” she asked me.

  I assured her that I did, adding that the couch looked very comfortable.

  “Try telling your dad that,” she said with a laugh. “He’d kill me for repeating this, but if you think Maurice is bad, you should’ve hear
d your dad gripe after every visit to Dr. Rudemeyer. Throughout the whole session, he couldn’t stop bitching and moaning about how uncomfortable—” She stopped short, realizing she’d said too much.

  “What are you talking about, Mom?” I asked slowly. “Who’s Dr. Rudemeyer?”

  “We’re done here, aren’t we?” she said, with a reverent glance at Freud’s couch. “Maybe we should go sit down somewhere and talk.”

  A few minutes later, at a dessert bar on High Street, she handed over some information straight from the you-wish-you-didn’t-know-this file. It seemed that, for a couple of years before their separation, she and Dad had confided their problems to a marital counselor every week.

  “But Dad hates shrinks,” I pointed out. “And anyway, you didn’t have any problems before you left him.”

  “If you could only hear yourself, Mimi,” Mom said. “Do you really think that washes? I’m sorry we never sat down for a real family chat about this before, but our decision to separate was by no means out of the blue. We’d been having problems for some time.”

  I felt weighted down with sadness, and slightly betrayed, too—but not by the woman sitting across from me. Why had Dad never mentioned Dr. Rudemeyer to me? Two years they’d gone to a counselor together? I sort of preferred thinking my parents’ marriage had been perfect until Mom’s sudden midlife crisis.

  Knowing I’d heard enough, she signaled for the waiter and ordered me something called a sticky toffee pudding. “I don’t care what they say about British cuisine,” she said, “sticky toffee’s just divine.”