Emma rested her chin on her arms, leaning over the sill and breathing the Italian air, fresh, mild. It was very quiet. She heard people talking in their gardens below; she heard a dog barking in a general way, announcing the end of the afternoon. Some chickens repeated themselves distractedly. These close domestic sounds were strange against the open, distant views. It was as though she were in an apartment mountain. She liked it, the feeling of dense Italian life, of connectedness. It was not what she knew at home, where everyone’s lives were private.
Behind her she heard Warren moving neatly around, unpacking, laying out his shirts in piles, in their paper-and-plastic envelopes, his polished shoes in pairs. Warren took his clothes very seriously, and he had beautiful things: soft Egyptian cotton shirts, lamb’s-wool sweaters, cashmere jackets. When he was finished dressing he would look at himself in the mirror. “Not bad,” he would say, shooting his cuffs with satisfaction. He would smooth his hair back from his forehead with one hand, holding himself very straight. “Who is that handsome devil? Isn’t that a movie star?” It made Emma laugh. He was handsome, Warren, after all: she was proud of this. He had a broad face and smooth honey-colored skin. His bright blue eyes were narrow and slanting, and his thick dark hair fell dashingly across his wide forehead.
Emma and her handsome husband spent their days driving across the flat farmlands of the Veneto, in pursuit of Palladio’s genius. Emma sat in the passenger’s seat, holding an untidy sheaf of maps and guidebooks, reading relevant passages. They sought out each of the great country villas. Some weren’t open to the public, and at those they parked beyond the gates and peered in at the roofline, at the bold elegant outlines. At Emo they put on huge floppy slippers over their shoes, and padded across the shining stone floors, through the ornamented rooms, past the great trompe l’oeil wall paintings. In Vicenza they stood in the narrow streets, gaping up at the implacable masonry sides of the late urban buildings, gloomy and severe.
Emma fell in love with Palladio too. She fell even more in love with Warren: it was he who was introducing her to such richness, showing her a country she had not known. The comforting order of the symmetry, the absurd elegance of the statuary figures posing airily along the rooflines—all of this delight she credited to Warren, who had spread it before her.
One morning they set out after breakfast. They started off on the narrow lane that led down the hillside, from the old part of Asolo toward the main road. Before them spread the great plain of the Veneto, green, calm, fertile, and Emma sighed with contentment. “This is wonderful,” she said. “This is such a wonderful trip.”
Warren, at the steering wheel, cocked his chin jauntily. “Stick with me, kid,” he said. “You need someone to take you in hand.”
That night they had dinner outdoors in the quiet garden, surrounded by the translucent Asolo evening. They sat beneath the awning, beside towering ancient trees, lit eerily from beneath. Waiters in white jackets bent gracefully over their table, setting gold-rimmed plates in the circle of candlelight. After dinner, giddy from the wine and air and Asolo, they went back to their silent room.
The maid had turned on the bedside lights and turned down the white linen sheets. The glowing lamps on either side of it, and the bright sheets, made the bed the center of the room, the point of the long day. Warren was in bed first, naked, and he watched Emma as she took off her clothes. She picked up her short slinky nightgown, conscious of his eyes on her.
“Don’t,” he said, from the bed. She turned to him. She was naked, proud of it.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t put anything on,” Warren said. “You have a beautiful body. Just come over here.”
But Emma felt powerful, in the dim room, standing nude before him. She didn’t move. “Beautiful body?” she said. “What about my face? You never say anything about my face.”
“Well,” said Warren judiciously. “You don’t have a beautiful face. I love your face,” he said, as though this were an idiosyncrasy that could be expected of no one else, “but I wouldn’t call it beautiful. You have a pretty face, but not a beautiful one. Your body, on the other hand, get over here.”
He climbed out of bed and came after her. He took her by the wrist, holding her powerfully, leading her back to bed, pulling her down with him, folding himself over her, insistent, demanding.
On the third night, long after they had made love and gone to sleep, Emma slowly found herself awake in the dark. It felt very late; it felt like the dead center of the night. Outside, it was absolutely silent, the deep silence of the country. Emma watched the window until she was able to make out shapes, until her eyes were accustomed to the dimness. There was a full moon; she wondered if that was what had wakened her. Its powdery radiance filled the room, dimly illuminating the mysterious forms of what Emma knew to be the great armoire, and the tables, piled with their maps and guides and books; the two low, fat armchairs. Now everything seemed enlarged, altered, menacing. The furniture seemed to have shifted position slightly. Everything, in this silence, in this silvery, ambiguous light, seemed different from what Emma remembered, from what she knew to be reality. She lay very quiet. Her own reality was this: she was here, in a hotel room with her husband. This was the beginning of her life, she thought, this was how the rest of her life was going to be. She felt fortunate, grateful.
Warren lay next to her on his back, his arms at his sides. Emma raised herself on her elbow and looked down at his face. She examined him as though he were an object. She stared. She felt faintly guilty, surreptitious and excited. At the same time she felt proud: her gaze was legitimate—he was her husband. She owned him as much as he owned her. Warren loved to examine her all over, his face intent, his hands following the path of his eyes. He stared at her face appraisingly, her body, as though he would devour her, as though he would memorize her, as though she were his object. Certainly Emma had the same right to his sleeping face.
She leaned over him, the long angle of the jaw, the dim low arch of his eyebrow, the silky ruffled hair. He lay quietly, exposed to her gaze. His hands were peacefully palm-up, his chest, with its small triangle of sparse fur, was bare, his face open, calm. His trust seemed remarkable to Emma, touching, rare. Warren’s chest rose, his breath drew suddenly in, he gave a long sigh. He moved his head slightly, settling deeper into the yielding pillow behind him. The gesture—instinctive, voluptuous—aroused Emma. She thought of his body seeking comfort and pleasure in other ways. She thought of his back and hips moving against her in the warmth; she thought of his body seeking her pleasure—for he took her in hand in that, as in other ways, his voice urging her to come, come—she thought of his body moving deeper and deeper into her own.
She leaned over; the bed creaked slightly. She felt daring, in the moon-filled room, with the country silence around her. She had never done this before, never been the initiator, never asked for sex. But this was her husband, she owned him as much as he owned her. Emma leaned over and kissed Warren’s mouth, very lightly. The touch of his lips was strange, they felt quiet and cool. His lips did not yet move against hers, he was still asleep. She raised her head again and looked at his face: the dark line of the eyebrows, the slightly crooked nose.
Again she felt an illicit thrill. Being the leader seemed dangerous, exciting, here in the depths of the night. She thought of Beauty and the Beast, Cupid and Psyche. Women surreptitiously lighting the candle to look at the midnight forms of their lovers: it was a moment always followed by disaster. Emma felt a sense of risk, but for no reason she could understand: Warren was not a beast.
She leaned over again and put her lips on Warren’s. She became aware of her skin, waiting for him to touch it. She leaned over until her breasts touched his chest, very lightly. She felt them swell against him. Again she put her lips on his mouth, pressing gently. She ran a fingertip along the side of his head, she touched his ear, brushing the warm complexity of its delicate whorls. Her own breathing began to deepen. She thought of him touching h
er. She was waiting for him to awake to her. She waited for him to put his arms around her, to pull her gently over to him, to strip the sheets away from their bodies, preparing them for pleasure.
Warren’s eyes opened slowly. Emma saw them opening, and then, luxuriously, knowing what would happen next, she closed her own eyes. She lifted her chin above him, exposing her throat to his eyes, his mouth. She felt Warren’s hands taking hold of her, seizing her upper arms. She felt him gathering himself, felt his muscles harden, felt him tighten and heave beneath her. She felt herself thrown, hurled.
She could not stop herself, her body was not in her control, she felt herself in the air, breathless and frightened, then she felt the impact: she hit the wall. She struck it with her back and hip, then fell: The floor hit her everywhere, her breasts, her chin, her knees.
The shock was tremendous. Emma lay on the cold floor. She was struck still by fear, and did not want to move. She could hear her own breathing, and opened her mouth to silence her breaths. The moonlight still filled the room. From where she lay, in the narrow well between the bed and the wall, she could see only the ceiling, dimly patterned by the window’s silhouette. She blinked her eyes, which seemed unfocused, as though she were drunk. She could not seem to take hold, she could not seem to understand what had happened, what she should address. She wondered if everything in the room had suddenly and violently moved, or if it had been only her. The houses on the terrace below came to mind: had anyone heard? Could they all tell what the sound had been? It was crucial that no one know. She felt herself again hurled through the air in the dark, out of control, lost, felt it happen over and over. She closed her eyes. What she felt was shame. She never wanted to raise her eyes again, never wanted to meet another gaze. Her back hurt, and her cheek and her neck. She realized that she had stopped breathing, and took a long quiet breath, secretive.
She stayed on the floor, mute, motionless, panicky, waiting for her breathing to subside, waiting for something better to happen. She concentrated on making her breathing absolutely silent. It seemed important. She did not dare cry, she was too ashamed. Shame was everywhere.
Later, when Emma was very cold, when the room had been silent for a long time, she climbed carefully back into bed. She moved very quietly. Warren lay with his back to her, and she kept to the far side of the bed. She waited for Warren to speak, but he did not. She felt herself begin to cry and stopped breathing, holding in the ragged breaths until she had quieted herself again. She lay without moving, curled against the edge of the bed, until, much later—the moon was nearly gone from the room—she slept.
In the morning she woke to find Warren lying on top of her. His face was directly in front of hers. She could smell him. He gazed into her eyes, he ran his hand slowly up the inside of her thigh. He had been stroking her while she was asleep, and Emma found herself already aroused. Her legs were already parted, and before she remembered she closed her eyes, sinking into this.
“I love you,” Warren said urgently, as though it were a command. “I love you.”
Emma, moving her shoulder beneath his hand, felt a sharp pain, and remembered. She opened her eyes again. His face was brooding, intent.
“I love you,” he said, and she felt relief: he had forgiven her, then. She looked steadily into his eyes.
What she remembered from the night before now seemed impossible. The morning light was clear and fresh. The dark armoire had resumed its normal size, the armchairs had returned to their places. The pale leaves moved easily outside the window, and Warren’s intimate voice was in her ear.
“I love you,” he said.
Emma closed her eyes. Maybe it had not happened, maybe she had dreamt it. But with her eyes closed she felt again that terrible vertigo, the helplessness of being thrown, the hard wall, the cold stone floor. Her shoulder hurt. Maybe Warren had done it in a dream, maybe he hadn’t realized what he’d done.
But whatever had happened was over, past, Emma thought. Warren had forgiven her, and he still loved her. Emma gave herself up to him again, moving carefully, so as not to awaken the pain.
Later, in the bathroom, alone, Emma turned and looked at herself over her shoulder in the mirror. She took her left shoulder in her right hand and tugged it forward, craning her neck to see this remote part of herself. On her back, on what her mother called her angel wing, was a large purple bruise, deep and mottled. The bone hurt when she moved it. She raised and lowered the wing, testing the pain, watching the mysterious patch shift over the bone. The skin was not broken, and it seemed strange to Emma that such pain could have been inflicted inside, to the bone, while the clean elastic surface of the skin stayed intact.
The bruise lasted. When the honeymoon was over it was still there, fading slowly through dim layers of green and yellow before turning to a dim roseate shadow. The nightmare memory, the feeling of being powerless and naked in the air, flung away, the feeling of the wall’s immovable presence against her, did not leave Emma. Nor did the sense of relief and gratitude she had felt afterward, for being forgiven.
They moved to a cramped apartment on Ninety-seventh Street. Emma got a job at an art book store; Warren went to work for a public relations firm that specialized in political clients. “These guys are brilliant,” he said importantly. “I can do a lot with this group.” He liked saying the names of their famous clients. He liked to say he was tired, frowning slightly, because he’d spent the whole afternoon “talking strategy with the senator.” Emma was pleased that he was so successful, so content.
One evening, before Tess was born, Warren and Emma were in their bedroom, getting dressed. They were going to a dinner party given by old friends of Emma’s. They were people she loved, and Emma felt lively and pretty. She leaned over her dressing table and hummed to herself as she put on her mother’s pearl drop earrings.
Warren stood before the full-length mirror that was set into the closet door. He was tying his necktie, and watching himself closely.
Emma stood and slid her dress over her head. It was a favorite: rose colored, with tiers of ruffles in the back. It had a small waist and a scoop neck, and Emma felt light and happy in it.
She stood next to Warren. “Will you zip me up?” She set her hands on her hips, to make it easy. She bowed her head, waiting for his hands on her back. But Warren was absorbed by his tie and did not look up. He was making careful loops in the heavy patterned silk.
“In a minute,” he said finally.
Emma waited, her head dutifully bent. Warren did not move.
“Warren,” Emma said finally, smiling. “I’m waiting.”
“Hold on,” Warren said. “This is important.”
“Well, so is this,” Emma said, laughing. She thought his vanity amusing, endearing. “I can’t go with my dress unzipped.”
“No one would notice,” Warren said, smiling at himself.
“What do you mean?” Emma asked. She raised her head and looked at him.
“I mean, we don’t get invited out to dinner because of you, Funny Face,” Warren said. He looped his tie around itself, slid the knot up tight. He examined it in the mirror, lifted his chin against it, gave it a little tug, then finally an approving pat. He was ready. He shot his cuffs, looking pleased. “Who is that handsome devil?” he asked his reflection.
“What do you mean?” Emma said again.
Warren turned to her, handsome, elegant, glowing. He brushed his hair off his forehead.
“I mean, Funny Face, that your husband is a hot ticket. When we go into a restaurant, people turn around and look at me. They think I’m a movie star.” He smiled, and shook his head, shrugging, a tiny smile at the corners of his mouth. “I can’t help it, it just happens.”
Emma stared at him.
“Now, what do you need done?” he asked, indulgent. He moved over behind her.
She watched him steadily in the mirror, and he met her eyes.
At once he shook his head. “Now, Emma, don’t start. You’re being oversensitive
again. I can see you starting up.” He smiled at her, loving, forgiving. “Remember who I am. I’m the man who loves you more than anyone in the world.”
There was a long pause.
“Remember?” Warren said tenderly. “I’m your husband.”
Emma said nothing, watching him in the mirror.
Warren bent over and kissed her neck. “Now, what do you need done, Funny Face? I’ll do anything you want. Anything.”
“Zip,” Emma said, and bowed her head.
She never told anyone about the things Warren said. She was ashamed to, afraid that he was right, that the things he said were true.
4
Peter stood facing the blustering stream of the shower, sluicing the loose soapy drifts from his body. The pounding water drummed hot against his chest; he turned back and forth beneath it, letting it slide him clean. Finished, he turned off the water and stepped out of the tiled stall. The chrome shower head was old, and pitted with dark flecks. The lopsided stream did not stop at once but subsided noisily into a narrow uneven thread before it dripped to a finish.
Peter stood on the bath mat. It lay, rumpled, directly on the tiled floor; there was no rug. There were no curtains at the window, no pictures on the walls. Only Peter’s shaving things, on the shelf above the sink, announced his presence in this place. He pulled his towel from the rack and set his foot on the edge of the bathtub. Leaning down to dry his leg, Peter lost his reflection in the mirror.
Most of the time he remembered why he was here. Much of the time it felt normal to him, understood. But sometimes, waking up, or on the phone, caught off guard, he forgot, and found himself suddenly in an alien place. Now, naked, bent over, balancing on one foot, he was lost, in this small bare room with its split and yellow tiles. The walls were thick with white paint, and faint cracks wandered across them. The whole apartment was like this: handsome, in decline.
This Is My Daughter Page 5