My Mistress's Sparrow Is Dead: Great Love Stories, From Chekhov to Munro

by Jeffrey Eugenides

  ‘She thought up such fantastic reasons that we would stop rowing to laugh at them.

  ‘She appealed to us as a woman too and La Tôque, who never did

  any rowing but spent the whole day sitting beside her in the helmsman’s seat, once said in reply to the traditional question “Why are you called Mouche?”: “Because she ’s a little Spanish fly.”

  ‘And that is exactly what she was: a little buzzing, exciting Spanish fly, not the classic poisonous cantharides, shiny and hooded, but a little red-winged Spanish fly who was beginning to have an oddly disturbing effect on the whole crew of the Feuille-à-l’Envers.

  ‘What stupid jokes we made about that Leaf on which our Fly had

  alighted!

  ‘Ever since Mouche had joined our crew N’a-qu’un-Oeil had taken

  up a superior, preponderant role among us, the role of a gentleman who has a woman, compared with four others who have none. He sometimes abused this privilege to the point of exasperating us by kissing Mouche in front of us, perching her on his knees after meals, and assuming all kinds of humiliating and irritating prerogatives.

  ‘We had fitted up a curtain in the dormitory to isolate them from the rest of us.

  ‘But I soon noticed that my companions were thinking along the

  same lines as myself, and asking themselves: “Why, under what exceptional law, by virtue of what inadmissible principle, should Mouche, who seems uninhibited by any principles, be faithful to her lover when women of higher social standing are not faithful to their husbands?”

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  ‘Our assessment of the situation was accurate, as we soon discovered. Our only regret was that we hadn’t made it earlier and so wasted precious time. Mouche was unfaithful to N’a-qu’un-Oeil with all the other sailors of the Feuille-à-l’Envers.

  ‘She did this without any difficulty, without any resistance, the first time each of us asked.

  ‘Heavens, how shocking prudish folk are going to find this! But

  why? Is there a single fashionable courtesan without a dozen lovers, and is there a single one of those lovers stupid enough not to know it? Isn’t it the done thing to have a regular evening with some famous, much-sought-after woman, just as one has a regular evening at the Opera, the Théâtre-Français, or the Odéon, now that they are putting on the minor classics? A dozen men club together to keep a cocotte who finds it difficult to make a fair distribution of her time, just as a dozen men will club together to buy a racehorse ridden by a single jockey—the perfect symbol of the real lover.

  ‘For reasons of delicacy we left Mouche to N’a-qu’un-Oeil from Saturday evening to Monday morning. The days on the river were his. We deceived him only during the week, in Paris, far from the Seine, which for boating men like us was almost tantamount to not deceiving him at all.

  ‘The odd thing about the situation was that the four men filching Mouche ’s favours knew all about the sharing of those favours, talked about it among themselves, and even made veiled allusions to it in her presence which made her roar with laughter. Only N’a-qu’un-Oeil

  seemed to know nothing about it, and his ignorance of the situation produced a sort of awkwardness between him and us; it seemed to set him apart, isolate him, and destroy our former trust and intimacy. It gave him in our eyes a difficult and rather ridiculous part to play, the part of a deceived lover, almost that of a husband.

  ‘However, as he was extremely intelligent, and had a dry sense of humour, we sometimes wondered, rather uneasily, whether he might not have his suspicions.

  ‘He took care to enlighten us in a way which was painful for us.

  We were on our way to Bougival for lunch and we were rowing hard

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  when La Tôque, who had the triumphant look of a contented man that morning, and, seated beside the helmswoman, seemed to be pressing up against her rather too freely for our liking, suddenly called out: “Stop!”

  ‘The eight oars rose out of the water.

  ‘Then, turning to his neighbour, he asked: “Why are you called

  Mouche?”

  ‘Before she could answer, N’a-qu’un-Oeil, who was sitting in the

  bows, said drily: “Because she settles on all sorts of carrion.”

  ‘At first there was an embarrassed silence, followed by a general inclination to laugh. Even Mouche was dumbfounded.

  ‘Then La Tôque gave the order: “All together.”

  ‘The boat moved forward again.

  ‘The matter was closed, the mystery cleared up.

  ‘This little incident changed nothing in our habits. Its only result was to restore cordial relations between N’a-qu’un-Oeil and ourselves. He became once more the privileged possessor of Mouche from Saturday evening until Monday morning, his superiority over the rest of us having been firmly established by this definition, which incidentally put a stop to all questions about the name Mouche. From then on we contented ourselves with the secondary role of grateful and attentive friends who took discreet advantage of weekdays without there being any sense of rivalry between us.

  ‘Everything went very well for about three months. Then, all of

  a sudden, Mouche began to behave strangely with us all. She was less high-spirited and became edgy, ill-at-ease, almost irritable.

  ‘We kept asking her: “What’s the matter with you?”

  ‘She would answer: “Nothing, leave me alone.”

  ‘We learned the truth from N’a-qu’un-Oeil one Saturday evening.

  We had just sat down at table in the little dining-room which Barbichon, the proprietor of our pothouse, reserved for us in his establishment, and after finishing our soup we were waiting for the fried fish when our friend, who also looked a little worried, took Mouche ’s hand and then began speaking.

  ‘ “My dear friends,” he said, “I have something very serious to tell you which may lead to some lengthy discussion. But we ’ll have time for

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  that between courses. Poor Mouche has given me a disastrous piece of news which she has asked me to pass on to you.

  ‘ “She is pregnant.

  ‘ “I have only two things to add. This is no time to leave her in the lurch, and any attempt to find out who’s the father is forbidden.”

  ‘The first effect of this news was utter amazement, a sense of disaster. We looked at one another as if we wanted to accuse somebody. But whom? Yes, whom? I have never felt as keenly as I did at that moment the unfairness of that cruel jest of Nature ’s which never allows a man to know for certain whether he is the father of his child.

  ‘Then, little by little, we came to experience a comforting sense of consolation, born, oddly enough, of a vague feeling of solidarity.

  ‘Tomahawk, who hardly ever spoke, expressed this growing seren-

  ity in the following words: “Well, it can’t be helped, and union is strength.”

  ‘A boy came in from the kitchen with the gudgeon. We didn’t pitch into it as we usually did, because when all was said and done we were rather upset.

  ‘N’a-qu-un-Oeil went on: “In these circumstances she has been good enough to make a full confession to me. We are all equally guilty. Let ’s shake hands on it and adopt the child.”

  ‘This proposal was unanimously accepted. We raised our arms above the dish of fried fish and swore a solemn oath: “We ’ll adopt it.”

  ‘Then, suddenly realizing that she was saved, and relieved of the horrible weight of anxiety which had been burdening her for a month, that sweet, crazy victim of love exclaimed: “Oh, my dear friends! You’re so kind, so very, very kind. . . . Thank you all!”

  ‘And for the first time in our presence she burst into tears.

  ‘From then on we would talk about the child in the boat as if it had already been born, and each of us showed an exaggerated degree of interest
in the slow but regular swelling of our helmswoman’s waist.

  ‘We would stop rowing and ask: “Mouche?”

  ‘She would reply: “Present!”

  ‘ “Boy or girl?”

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  ‘ “Boy.”

  ‘ “What will he be?”

  ‘Then she would give free rein to her imagination in the most

  fantastic way, telling us endless stories, astonishing accounts of the child ’s life from the day of his birth to his final triumph. He was everything, that child, in the innocent, passionate, touching dreams of that extraordinary little creature who now lived chastely among the five men she called her “five papas.” She saw and described him as a sailor discovering a new world bigger than America; as a general winning back Alsace and Lorraine for France; as an emperor founding a dynasty of wise and generous sovereigns who would give our country lasting happiness; as a scientist finding first the secret of making gold and then that of eternal life; and as an aeronaut devising a method of travelling to the stars and turning the infinite reaches of space into a vast promenade for mankind—thus making all men’s most improbable

  and magnificent dreams come true.

  ‘Heavens, how sweet and amusing the poor thing was until the end

  of that summer!

  ‘It was on the twentieth of September that her dream was destroyed.

  We were rowing back after lunch at Maisons-Laffitte, and we were passing Saint-Germain when she said that she was thirsty and asked us to stop at Le Pecq.

  ‘For some time past she had been growing heavy and this annoyed

  her dreadfully. She could no longer skip around as before, or leap from the boat to the bank as she was used to doing. But she still tried to, in spite of all we said or did to stop her, and she would have fallen a score of times if our arms had not been waiting to catch her.

  ‘That day she was rash enough to try to leave the boat while it was still moving, in one of those displays of bravado which sometimes prove fatal to sick or tired athletes.

  ‘Just as we were coming alongside, before we could guess what she was going to do or stop her, she stood up, took a spring, and tried to jump on to the quay.

  ‘But she was not strong enough to reach it and just touched the stone

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  edging with one foot. She slipped, struck her belly against the sharp corner, and with a loud cry disappeared into the water.

  ‘All five of us dived in together, and brought out a poor fainting creature, deathly pale and already suffering terrible pain.

  ‘We carried her as quickly as we could to the nearest inn and then sent for a doctor.

  ‘During the ten hours her miscarriage lasted she bore the appalling agony with heroic courage. We stood around miserably, sick with worry and fear.

  ‘Finally she was delivered of a dead child, and for a few more days we had serious fears for her life.

  ‘At last the doctor told us one morning: “I think she ’s over the worst.

  That girl must be made of iron!” And we all went into her room together, our hearts bursting with relief.

  ‘Speaking for us all, N’a-qu’un-Oeil said to her: “You’re out of danger, Mouche dear, and we ’re all delighted!”

  ‘Then for the second time we saw her cry. With her eyes swimming

  with tears, she stammered: “Oh, if you only knew, if you only knew. . . .

  I’m so unhappy, so unhappy. . . . I’ll never get over it.”

  ‘ “Over what, Mouche dear?”

  ‘ “Killing him, of course, for I did kill him! Oh, I know I didn’t mean to, but I’m so unhappy all the same. . . .”

  ‘She burst out sobbing. We stood around her, deeply moved, not

  knowing what to say.

  ‘She went on: “Did you see him?”

  ‘With one voice we answered: “Yes.”

  ‘ “It was a boy, wasn’t it?”

  ‘ “Yes.”

  ‘ “And beautiful?”

  ‘We hesitated. Petit-Bleu, who had fewer scruples than the rest of us, made up his mind what to say.

  ‘ “Very beautiful.”

  ‘This was unwise of him, for she started moaning, almost howling with despair.

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  ‘Then N’a-qu’un-Oeil, who perhaps loved her more than any of us, hit on a wonderful idea to calm her down. Kissing her tear-dimmed eyes, he said: “Cheer up, Mouche dear, cheer up. We ’ll make you another one.”

  ‘The sense of humour which was in her very bones suddenly came

  alive, and half convinced, half laughing, with tears still in her eyes and her heart full of pain, she looked around at us all and asked: “Honest?”

  ‘And we answered as one man: “Honest.” ’

  t h e m o o n i n i t s f l i g h t

  g i l b e rt s o r r e n t i n o

  This was in 1948. A group of young people sitting on the darkened porch of a New Jersey summer cottage in a lake resort community. The host some Bernie wearing an Upsala College sweatshirt. The late June night so soft one can, in retrospect, forgive America for everything. There were perhaps eight or nine people there, two of them the people that this story sketches.

  Bernie was talking about Sonny Stitt ’s alto on “That ’s Earl, Brother.”

  As good as Bird, he said. Arnie said, bullshit: he was a very hip young man from Washington Heights, wore mirrored sunglasses. A bop drummer in his senior year at the High School of Performing Arts. Our young man, nineteen at this time, listened only to Rebecca, a girl of fifteen, remarkable in her New Look clothes. A long full skirt, black, snug tailored shirt of blue and white stripes with a high white collar and black velvet string tie, black kid Capezios. It is no wonder that lesbians like women.

  At some point during the evening he walked Rebecca home. She lived on Lake Shore Drive, a wide road that skirted the beach and ran parallel to the small river that flowed into Lake Minnehaha. Lake Ramapo?

  Lake Tomahawk. Lake O-shi-wa-noh? Lake Sunburst. Leaning against

  her father’s powder-blue Buick convertible, lost, in the indigo night, the creamy stars, sound of crickets, they kissed. They fell in love.

  One of the songs that summer was “For Heaven’s Sake.” Another,

  “It ’s Magic.” Who remembers the clarity of Claude Thornhill and Sarah Vaughan, their exquisite irrelevance? They are gone where the useless chrome doughnuts on the Buick’s hood have gone. That Valhalla of

  Amos ’n’ Andy and guinea fruit peddlers with golden earrings. “Pleasa No Squeeza Da Banana.” In 1948, the whole world seemed beautiful to

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  young people of a certain milieu, or let me say, possible. Yes, it seemed a possible world. This idea persisted until 1950, at which time it died, along with many of the young people who had held it. In Korea, the Chinese played “Scrapple from the Apple” over loudspeakers pointed at the American lines. That savage and virile alto blue-clear on the sub-zero night. This is, of course, old news.

  Rebecca was fair. She was fair. Lovely Jewish girl from the remote and exotic Bronx. To him that vast borough seemed a Cythera—that

  it could house such fantastic creatures as she! He wanted to be Jewish.

  He was, instead, a Roman Catholic, awash in sin and redemption. What loathing he had for the Irish girls who went to eleven o’clock Mass, legions of blushing pink and lavender spring coats, flat white straw hats, the crinkly veils over their open faces. Church clothes, under which their inviolate crotches sweetly nestled in soft hair.

  She had white and perfect teeth. Wide mouth. Creamy stars, pale

  nights. Dusty black roads out past the beach. The sunlight on the raft, moonlight on the lake. Sprinkle of freckles on her shoulders. Aromatic breeze.

  Of course this was a summer romance, but bear with me and see with what banal literary irony it all turns o
ut—or does not turn out at all. The country bowled and spoke of Truman’s grit and spunk. How softly we had slid off the edge of civilization.

  The liquid moonlight filling the small parking area outside the gates to the beach. Bass flopping softly in dark waters. What was the scent of the perfume she wore? The sound of a car radio in the cool nights, collective American memory. Her browned body, delicate hair bleached golden on her thighs. In the beach pavilion they danced and drank Cokes. Mel Tormé and the Mel-Tones. Dizzy Gillespie. “Too Soon to Know.” In the mornings, the sun so crystal and lucent it seemed the very exhalation of the sky, he would swim alone to the raft and lie there, the beach empty, music from the pavilion attendant ’s radio coming to him in splinters. At such times he would thrill himself by pretending that he had not yet met Rebecca and that he would see her that afternoon for the first time.

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  The first time he touched her breasts he cried in his shame and

  delight. Can all this really have taken place in America? The trees rustled for him, as the rain did rain. One day, in New York, he bought her a silver friendship ring, tiny perfect hearts in bas-relief running around it so that the point of one heart nestled in the cleft of another. Innocent symbol that tortured his blood. She stood before him in the pale light in white bra and panties, her shorts and blouse hung on the hurricane fence of the abandoned and weed-grown tennis court and he held her, stroking her flanks and buttocks and kissing her shoulders. The smell of her flesh, vague sweat and perfume. Of course he was insane. She caressed him so far as she understood how through his faded denim shorts. Thus did they flay themselves, burning. What were they to do? Where were they to go? The very thought of the condom in his pocket made his heart careen in despair. Nothing was like anything said it was after all.

  He adored her.

  She was entering her second year at Evander Childs that coming fall. He hated this school he had never seen, and hated all her fellow students. He longed to be Jewish, dark and mysterious and devoid of sin. He stroked her hair and fingered her nipples, masturbated fiercely on the dark roads after he had seen her home. Why didn’t he at least live in the Bronx?