by Rona Jaffe
“Did you get any sleep on the plane?”
“Not much.”
“You know how you are with jet lag,” Roger said. “If you lie down this late in the day I can never get you up. I made reservations tonight at a brasserie called Benoit that’s supposed to be very fashionable. Nine o’clock. Will you be able to wake up?”
“I promise.”
When they went back to their room they each automatically headed for the bed that was on the side where they usually slept in their big bed at home. We’re like two comfortable old animals, Olivia thought. We didn’t even discuss it. Roger set the alarm and then suddenly went to sleep so fast she wondered if he was pretending.
She looked over at his familiar form under the covers. It had been a long time since they had slept in the same room, and just having him there made her feel safe. But strangely she wasn’t actually attracted to him. What she felt for him was more a deep and abiding love than a real sensuality. There were, of course, a number of reasons: exhaustion and self-protection came first to mind. She had always enjoyed sex with him, they made each other happy, but it had been a long time since she had regarded him in that haze of lust they had shared in their early years. She had always assumed it was the normal progression of things and not worth worrying about. Their love had developed and grown. They had always remained affectionate, which was more than she could say about a lot of other couples she had observed.
This faded passion is the same way Roger felt about me before he met her, Olivia thought sadly. And it’s how he still feels. I know him so well. No matter what he’s done to make him seem a stranger, I still know him. I acknowledged those subtle changes so casually, but they must have concerned him a lot. I didn’t think lust was that crucial. He apparently did. What are we going to do about our lives? What will become of us?
* * *
The brasserie where they had dinner was warm and cozy and very French in an old-fashioned way. They had reserved at the other restaurants where they would dine for the next two evenings and left the rest to spur-of-the-moment decisions. Because it wasn’t August yet the places they liked or wanted to try were still open before France’s summer vacation overtook the city with a vengeance and closed almost everything as the Parisians fled.
They had fish and shared a bottle of wine, facing each other across a small table. Olivia wondered if this reconciliation they were attempting was supposed to involve lovemaking too, and when Roger ordered another bottle of wine she was sure he was thinking about the same thing. He seemed as nervous as a honeymooner.
“We’ll get drunk and sick,” she said and immediately was sorry she had said something so unromantic, although it was true.
“We won’t drink it all,” Roger said.
“Let’s take everything slowly.”
He looked at her. “Of course.”
“My feelings are so complicated,” she said. “I don’t even know what I feel from hour to hour.”
“That’s normal.”
“Do you feel that way?”
“Sometimes. Oh boy, do I!”
They smiled at each other. “I love you so much,” Olivia said. “You’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine.”
“Are you having a good birthday weekend so far?”
“Very.”
They were lowering the level in the second bottle, he more than she. “Let’s pretend we just met,” Roger said.
“Then I’d have to tell you my life story.”
“Or make it up.”
“I’d probably just omit the things you shouldn’t know.”
“I’d try to impress you,” he said.
“Of course. I’d flirt with you.”
“I’d like that.”
“How could I tell you about my past?” Olivia said. “So much of my past is you.”
There was a silence while he seemed to be taking this in. Then he took her hand across the table and held it. “I’m glad you and I didn’t just meet,” he said. “I don’t want to have missed anything we had together.”
By the time they finished dinner he was quite drunk. Then he insisted on having a poire to finish the meal. They got back to their room and looked at the two beds, which seemed very small, and at the distance between them, which seemed very large, although a few years ago it would never have been an issue. “I think I drank too much,” Roger said.
“I did, too.”
He put his arms around her like a cuddly bear and put his head on her shoulder. “We’re going to have a great weekend,” he said. “You’ll see,” and then he got into his bed and pulled up the covers and was asleep.
The next morning he had a hangover. She wasn’t surprised. She didn’t feel so great but at least she was functioning, and she felt much better after a big café au lait from room service. “You sleep,” she said to him. “I’m going out to get your birthday present.”
“I’ll be fine in a few hours,” he murmured.
“I’ll come back and we’ll go to lunch at about one o’clock if you’re up to it.”
“Okay.”
The sun was shining, and as soon as she started walking through the fresh morning streets, Olivia began to smile. She noticed a few men smiled back at her, as if she had meant it for them instead of for the nice day in Paris, and she was pleased because it meant she was still attractive, still desirable, still a force to be reckoned with. She walked briskly all the way to the Left Bank, to the antiques shop where she had seen the old microscope the day before, and to her delight it was still there and what was more, it was even affordable.
“I hope you’ll take a traveler’s check?” she asked the proprietor.
“Of course.”
She filled it out and handed him her passport for identification.
“Miss . . . Oak-ren?”
“Okrent. Although Oak-ren is a lot prettier,” Olivia said. “Would you wrap it, please?”
“Of course.”
“Is that you?” an American-accented voice said. A young man came toward her through the gloom, emerging from behind crystal chandeliers and tapestry-covered chairs, glimmering a little in cream-colored linen Armani pants and a white T-shirt, his skin city pale, his long, straight black hair hanging on a slant over his forehead, his gray eyes gleaming like moonstones. “Dr. Okrent?”
Even though he was out of context, she realized in an instant who he was. Nobody else she ever saw looked like him. He was her client Marc Delon from New York, whose sturdy dalmatian she had been treating for two years. He had endeared himself to her by having named his dog Spot, because it was so silly, and also because he obviously loved Spot so much.
“Marc!”
“So this is where you come for your summer vacation,” he said.
“Not exactly. It’s just a long weekend. How’s Spot?”
“He’s fine. How’s Wozzle?”
“She’s great. What are you doing here?”
“I’m buying a birthday present for my grandmother.”
He’s so young, Olivia thought. He has a grandmother. I don’t even have parents. “I mean in Paris, not this store.”
“Well, I came to visit her. And you?”
“It’s Roger’s birthday.”
“Cool.”
Cool, she thought with a twinge. That’s what Wendy said. “I bought him an old microscope,” she said. “What are you getting for your grandmother?”
“I thought this box. Do you like it?” He held it out to her earnestly, hoping for her approval. It was small and perfect, made of fitted mother-of-pearl pieces.
“It’s lovely,” Olivia said. “Does she collect them?”
“She collects everything. There isn’t an inch of any surface in her apartment that doesn’t have little things arranged on it, and no dust at all. It’s terrifying.”
&nbs
p; “Do you like her?”
“Yes, I do. I love her. Do you still have your grandparents?”
“No, I’m afraid not. You’re lucky.”
“I think so. We’re having a big family dinner tonight.”
“Is it a significant birthday?”
“Every birthday is significant at her age,” he said. “But no, she’s seventy-eight. It’s a chance for the family to get together. I see my cousins, whom I hardly ever see now that I’ve been living in New York.”
“I know,” Olivia said. “I like seeing my cousins too, and we never get together unless it’s an occasion.”
“Are you having a party for Roger?”
“The two of us are going to the Tour d’Argent. He wants the view and the duck.”
“I’ve never been there,” Marc said.
“Is it too touristy?”
“Oh no, just too expensive. I’ll go when I sell my book.”
“You’ve written a book?”
“I’m writing one.” The proprietor handed them their wrapped packages. “Would you like to have a coffee with me, Dr. Oak-ren?” Marc asked.
“Only if you call me Olivia. We’re on vacation.”
“Okay, Olivia. I know a place right near here.”
He took her to a small neighborhood bistro with round marble-topped tables and straw chairs set outside on the sidewalk. The street was narrow, and a boy was playing with his dog, throwing it a ball. They ordered two coffees and watched the boy with his dog for a while.
“I miss Wozzle,” Olivia said.
“I miss Spot. Do you want me to tell you about my book?”
“Yes, please!”
“It’s about how children’s stories influence our lives as adults, and what their messages are. Some are inspiring and allay fears, but some of them have actually warped and corrupted our self-esteem and sense of adventure, as they were probably meant to. Cautionary tales—you wonder what kind of people wrote them! My research goes back over almost two hundred years—it’s quite historical. I cover some classic children’s stories and also books people remember having read or had read to them as kids. I ask people: What’s your favorite story from childhood, and then: What’s the worst one you remember? Usually the horrible ones are the ones that sent the message that lingered. The stories they wrote for girls were even more threatening to individuality than the ones for boys, although the boys’ stories were certainly about conformity in their own way.”
“How strange,” Olivia said.
“It’s not strange really when you see how the stories reflected what society demanded of its children and its adults during each period. A bedtime story is basically written as a learning tool for a malleable little child. Some of them can make you very angry.”
“That’s so interesting.”
“I was originally going to write the book with my girlfriend. She was going to do the girls’ stories and I was going to do the boys’ stories. But we weren’t getting along and then we broke up, and she didn’t want to write it at all. By then I’d gotten interested in her side of it too, so I decided to research and write the whole thing.”
“I’m impressed,” Olivia said. She wondered why he and his girlfriend hadn’t gotten along. He was so unusually attractive, and so bright, and had such a sweet way about him, that if she were his age, which she guessed to be no more than thirty, she would have had a tremendous crush on him. Maybe he was hard to live with. Maybe the girlfriend was difficult. Maybe he cheated. Certainly he would have opportunities. You never knew about people’s private lives. No one would suspect what hers was like.
“Would you like a croissant?” Marc asked. “They’re good here.”
“I’ll share one with you.”
“And another coffee?”
“My head will fly off. French coffee . . .”
“Put hot water in it,” Marc said. “A lot of people do.” He ordered the croissant and coffee and hot water.
What a very nice body he had, she thought; the hard, smooth muscles under his T-shirt, the slim waist. She wondered if he worked out or was just lucky. He probably liked sports—maybe skiing in winter, rollerblades in the park in spring. Here in the sunlight he was not as pale as he had always seemed indoors; his skin had a fresh, fair color to it.
He put some hot water into her coffee for her and cut their croissant neatly in half. “I’m so glad we met here,” he said. “I always wanted to know you better. You fascinated me every time I came to your office.”
“I did?”
“The beautiful doctor in the white coat. It’s your domain.”
“And rightly so,” she said lightly.
“Exactly.”
“Well, here I am,” Olivia said. “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me a story your mother or your father told you or read to you as a child that influenced your life.” He fixed her with his beautiful moonstone gray eyes and a mischievous expression. “Inspired you or warped you, either one.”
“You’re bad.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Well, my mother read to me a lot.”
“What sticks in your mind?”
“I don’t know,” Olivia said. “Let me think. Meanwhile, tell me what got you interested in these stories in the first place.”
“You’re evading.”
“I thought you would find it flattering,” she said teasingly. “Most men like to talk about themselves and their work.” I’m flirting with him, she thought, surprised. But also she was reluctant to reveal too much about herself. After all, she was the authority figure back in New York. What he was asking her to remember and share could turn out to be very visceral.
“I’ll tell you how I got interested,” Marc said. “Two years ago when I came to Paris with my parents to visit my grandmother, my mother began reminiscing about the books her mother had read to her as a child. There was one that had always upset and frightened her, and she said it still upset her to think about it. It was the story of a little girl who accidentally knocked over a vase that belonged to her parents, and broke it. When her mother asked her if she had broken the vase she was afraid of being punished, which she knew she would be, and she denied it. So every day her mother asked her again to confess, and when she wouldn’t, her mother gave away one of the little girl’s dolls.
“Day after day her dolls were taken away, until finally the only one that was left was the little girl’s very favorite one, a humble and ragged and much-loved doll she had owned since she was a baby. No punishment could be as bad as losing that one last doll. So she confessed to having broken the vase.
“My mother couldn’t remember how it ended. She thought that since the little girl had already been given her punishment, for breaking the vase, and for lying, and all her other dolls were gone, the ending was that she got to keep the one. She said it also might have ended where the mother returned the dolls to the little girl, but she couldn’t remember. To me that sounds more logical, since cautionary tales had so-called happy endings. But all she did remember was that the book made her miserable, and that her mother read it to her often, and that for the rest of her life she always told the truth.”
“What an awful story,” Olivia said. She was upset for the little girl in the book and for the child who had been his mother. She thought of her own mother, and of Grady and Taylor and Big Earl. “Children are so helpless,” she murmured.
“My mother asked my grandmother about it, and she didn’t know what the fuss was about. She told my mother: ‘But you always loved that book.’ ”
And Grady never fought back when his mother hit him, Olivia thought. “How did the book end?”
“We don’t know. Their copy is long gone, and they don’t remember the name of it. It’s probably out of print—this happened over fifty years ago. If I decide later that I really need to
know, I’ll go dig it up somehow. But my book will be written with anecdotes and case histories as well as actual text, so it doesn’t matter. What matters is how it affected her as an adult. She always remembered the fear and the lesson. You understand my grandmother didn’t mean to torment her. My grandmother was probably a little crazy, but so were all the mothers who read that book to their children and expected them to learn from it how to be good little girls. In my grandmother’s house you didn’t break the rules. You still don’t.”
“I’ll tell you mine,” Olivia said.
He leaned forward. “Good or bad?”
“Bad. My mother made this story up. She said it was my favorite, and I remember asking her to tell it to me. I couldn’t have been older than four. It was the story of Spindle Legs the cow.”
“Spindle Legs?”
“Well, you know cows have skinny legs.” As she started to tell it she could picture herself again as a four-year-old in her pajamas, her mother a comforting presence in the lamplight, explaining to her what life was about.
“Spindle Legs was the best milk cow on the farm. She gave more milk than any other cow there. From time to time she would see the boy cows, and the girl cows who didn’t give any more milk, being put on a cattle car to go away to see the world. ‘I want to go, too,’ she told the farmer, ‘I want to go away to see the world,’ but the farmer wouldn’t let her. Then she noticed that the cows who were allowed to go away to the city were the ones who couldn’t give milk anymore. So Spindle Legs stopped giving milk. Just stopped. And finally, sure enough, she was put on a cattle car to go to the city. How exciting! But when she got there she discovered that they had all been taken to a slaughterhouse, where they were going to be killed.
“When she realized they were going to kill her she was very frightened and she begged: ‘Please, don’t kill me, I promise I’ll give milk again. Lots of milk!’ So her life was spared, and Spindle Legs went back to the farm, where she gave more milk than any other cow for the rest of her life.”
Marc looked aghast. “Who wrote that story, Ilse Koch?”
“No, my mother.”
“Wow.” There was a pause while he looked at her with renewed interest and sympathy. “I can see how it must have affected you.”