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

by Jeffrey Eugenides

  There was no one on the veranda where we lunched except the En-

  glishman I had recently observed; in front of him, a long glass containing a bright crimson drink threw an oval reflection on the tablecloth. In his eyes, I noticed the same bloodshot desire, but now it was in no sense related to Nina; that avid look was not directed at her at all, but was fixed on the upper right-hand corner of the broad window near which he was sitting.

  Having pulled the gloves off her small thin hands, Nina, for the last time in her life, was eating the shellfish of which she was so fond. Ferdinand also busied himself with food, and I took advantage of his hunger to begin a conversation which gave me the semblance of power over him: to be specific, I mentioned his recent failure. After a brief period of fashionable religious conversion, during which grace descended upon him and he undertook some rather ambiguous pilgrimages, which ended in a decidedly scandalous adventure, he had turned his dull eyes toward barbarous Moscow. Now, frankly speaking, I have always been irritated by the complacent conviction that a ripple of stream consciousness, a few healthy obscenities, and a dash of communism in any old slop pail will alchemically and automatically produce ultramodern literature; and I will contend until I am shot that art as soon as it is brought into contact with politics inevitably sinks to the level of any ideological trash. In Ferdinand ’s case, it is true, all this was rather irrelevant: the muscles of his muse were exceptionally strong, to say nothing of the fact that he didn’t care a damn for the plight of the underdog; but because of certain obscurely mischievous undercurrents of that sort, his art had become still more repulsive. Except for a few snobs none had understood the play; I had not seen it myself, but could well imagine that elaborate Kremlinesque night along the impossible spirals of which he spun various wheels of dismembered symbols; and now, not without pleasure, I asked him whether he had read a recent bit of criticism about himself.

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  “Criticism!” he exclaimed. “Fine criticism! Every slick jackanapes sees fit to read me a lecture. Ignorance of my work is their bliss. My books are touched gingerly, as one touches something that may go bang.

  Criticism! They are examined from every point of view except the essential one. It is as if a naturalist, in describing the equine genus, started to jaw about saddles or Mme. de V.” (he named a well-known literary hostess who indeed strongly resembled a grinning horse). “I would like some of that pigeon’s blood too,” he continued in the same loud, ripping voice, addressing the waiter, who understood his desire only after he had looked in the direction of the long-nailed finger which unceremoni-ously pointed at the Englishman’s glass. For some reason or other, Segur mentioned Ruby Rose, the lady who painted flowers on her breast, and the conversation took on a less insulting character. Meanwhile the big Englishman suddenly made up his mind, got up on a chair, stepped from there onto the windowsill, and stretched up till he reached that coveted corner of the frame where rested a compact furry moth, which he deftly slipped into a pillbox.

  “. . . rather like Wouwerman’s white horse,” said Ferdinand, in

  regard to something he was discussing with Segur.

  “Tu es très hippique ce matin,” remarked the latter.

  Soon they both left to telephone. Ferdinand was particularly fond of long-distance calls, and particularly good at endowing them, no matter what the distance, with a friendly warmth when it was necessary, as for instance now, to make sure of free lodgings.

  From afar came the sounds of music—a trumpet, a zither. Nina and I set out to wander again. The circus on its way to Fialta had apparently sent out runners: an advertising pageant was tramping by; but we did not catch its head, as it had turned uphill into a side alley: the gilded back of some carriage was receding, a man in a burnoose led a camel, a file of four mediocre Indians carried placards on poles, and behind them, by special permission, a tourist ’s small son in a sailor suit sat reverently on a tiny pony.

  We wandered by a café where the tables were now almost dry but

  still empty; the waiter was examining (I hope he adopted it later) a horrible foundling, the absurd inkstand affair, stowed by Ferdinand on the

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  banisters in passing. At the next corner we were attracted by an old stone stairway, and we climbed up, and I kept looking at the sharp angle of Nina’s step as she ascended, raising her skirt, its narrowness requiring the same gesture as formerly length had done; she diffused a familiar warmth, and going up beside her, I recalled the last time we had come together. It had been in a Paris house, with many people around, and my dear friend Jules Darboux, wishing to do me a refined aesthetic favor, had touched my sleeve and said, “I want you to meet—” and led me to Nina, who sat in the corner of a couch, her body folded Z-wise, with an ashtray at her heel, and she took a long turquoise cigarette holder from her lips and joyfully, slowly exclaimed, “Well, of all people—” and then all evening my heart felt like breaking, as I passed from group to group with a sticky glass in my fist, now and then looking at her from a distance (she did not look . . .), and listened to scraps of conversation, and overheard one man saying to another, “Funny, how they all smell alike, burnt leaf through whatever perfume they use, those angular dark-haired girls,” and as it often happens, a trivial remark related to some unknown topic coiled and clung to one ’s own intimate recollection, a parasite of its sadness.

  At the top of the steps, we found ourselves on a rough kind of terrace. From here one could see the delicate outline of the dove-colored Mount St. George with a cluster of bone-white flecks (some hamlet) on one of its slopes; the smoke of an indiscernible train undulated along its rounded base—and suddenly disappeared; still lower, above the jumble of roofs, one could perceive a solitary cypress, resembling the moist-twirled black tip of a watercolor brush; to the right, one caught a glimpse of the sea, which was gray, with silver wrinkles. At our feet lay a rusty old key, and on the wall of the half-ruined house adjoining the terrace, the ends of some wire still remained hanging. . . . I reflected that formerly there had been life here, a family had enjoyed the cool-ness at nightfall, clumsy children had colored pictures by the light of a lamp. . . . We lingered there as if listening to something; Nina, who stood on higher ground, put a hand on my shoulder and smiled, and carefully, so as not to crumple her smile, kissed me. With an unbearable force, I relived (or so it now seems to me) all that had ever been

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  between us beginning with a similar kiss; and I said (substituting for our cheap, formal “thou” that strangely full and expressive “you” to which the circumnavigator, enriched all around, returns), “Look here—what if I love you?” Nina glanced at me, I repeated those words, I wanted to add . . . but something like a bat passed swiftly across her face, a quick, queer, almost ugly expression, and she, who would utter coarse words with perfect simplicity, became embarrassed; I also felt awkward. . . .

  “Never mind, I was only joking,” I hastened to say, lightly encircling her waist. From somewhere a firm bouquet of small, dark, unselfishly smelling violets appeared in her hands, and before she returned to her husband and car, we stood for a little while longer by the stone parapet, and our romance was even more hopeless than it had ever been. But the stone was as warm as flesh, and suddenly I understood something I had been seeing without understanding—why a piece of tinfoil had sparkled so on the pavement, why the gleam of a glass had trembled on a tablecloth, why the sea was ashimmer: somehow, by imperceptible degrees, the white sky above Fialta had got saturated with sunshine, and now it was sun-pervaded throughout, and this brimming white radiance grew broader and broader, all dissolved in it, all vanished, all passed, and I stood on the station platform of Mlech with a freshly bought newspaper, which told me that the yellow car I had seen under the plane trees had suffered a crash beyond Fialta, having run at full speed
into the truck of a traveling circus entering the town, a crash from which Ferdinand and his friend, those invulnerable rogues, those salamanders of fate, those basilisks of good fortune, had escaped with local and temporary injury to their scales, while Nina, in spite of her long-standing, faithful imitation of them, had turned out after all to be mortal.

  h o w t o b e a n o t h e r w o m a n

  l o r r i e m o o r e

  Meet in expensive beige raincoats, on a pea-soupy night. Like

  a detective movie. First, stand in front of Florsheim’s Fifty-

  seventh Street window, press your face close to the glass, watch the fake velvet Hummels inside revolving around the wing tips; some white shoes, like your father wears, are propped up with garlands on a small mound of chemical snow. All the stores have closed. You can see your breath on the glass. Draw a peace sign. You are waiting for a bus.

  He emerges from nowhere, looks like Robert Culp, the fog rolling, then parting, then sort of closing up again behind him. He asks you for a light and you jump a bit, startled, but you give him your “Lucky’s Lounge—Where Leisure Is a Suit” matches. He has a nice chuckle, nice fingernails. He lights the cigarette, cupping his hands around the end, and drags deeply, like a starving man. He smiles as he exhales, returns you the matches, looks at your face, says: “Thanks.”

  He then stands not far from you, waiting. Perhaps for the same bus.

  The two of you glance furtively at each other, shifting feet. Pretend to contemplate the chemical snow. You are two spies glancing quickly at watches, necks disappearing in the hunch of your shoulders, collars upturned and slowly razoring the cab and store-lit fog like sharkfins.

  You begin to circle, gauging each other in primordial sniffs, eyeing, sidling, keen as Basil Rathbone.

  A bus arrives. It is crowded, everyone looking laughlessly into one another’s underarms. A blonde woman in barrettes steps off, holding her shoes in one hand.

  You climb on together, grab adjacent chrome posts, and when the

  bus hisses and rumbles forward, you take out a book. A minute goes

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  by and he asks what you’re reading. It is Madame Bovary in a Doris Day biography jacket. Try to explain about binding warpage. He smiles, interested.

  Return to your book. Emma is opening her window, thinking of

  Rouen.

  “What weather,” you hear him sigh, faintly British or uppercrust

  Delaware.

  Glance up. Say: “It is fit for neither beast nor vegetable.”

  It sounds dumb. It makes no sense.

  But it is how you meet.

  At the movies he is tender, caressing your hand beneath the seat.

  At concerts he is sweet and attentive, buying cocktails, locating the ladies’ lounge when you can’t find it.

  At museums he is wise and loving, leading you slowly through the

  Etruscan cinerary urns with affectionate gestures and an art history minor from Columbia. He is kind; he laughs at your jokes.

  After four movies, three concerts, and two-and-a-half museums, you sleep with him. It seems the right number of cultural events. On the ste-reo you play your favorite harp and oboe music. He tells you his wife ’s name. It is Patricia. She is an intellectual property lawyer. He tells you he likes you a lot. You lie on your stomach, naked and still too warm.

  When he says, “How do you feel about that?” don’t say “Ridiculous” or

  “Get the hell out of my apartment.” Prop your head up with one hand and say: “It depends. What is intellectual property law?”

  He grins. “Oh, you know. Where leisure is a suit.”

  Give him a tight, wiry little smile.

  “I just don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about this,” he says.

  Say: “Hey. I am a very cool person. I am tough.” Show him your

  bicep.

  When you were six you thought mistress meant to put your shoes on the wrong feet. Now you are older and know it can mean many things, but essentially it means to put your shoes on the wrong feet.

  You walk differently. In store windows you don’t recognize your-

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  self; you are another woman, some crazy interior display lady in glasses stumbling frantic and preoccupied through the mannequins. In public restrooms you sit dangerously flat against the toilet seat, a strange flesh sundae of despair and exhilaration, murmuring into your bluing thighs:

  “Hello, I’m Charlene. I’m a mistress.”

  It is like having a book out from the library.

  It is like constantly having a book out from the library.

  You meet frequently for dinner, after work, split whole liters of the house red, then wamble the two blocks east, twenty blocks south to your apartment and lie sprawled on the living room floor with your expensive beige raincoats still on.

  He is a systems analyst—you have already exhausted this joke—but

  what he really wants to be, he reveals to you, is an actor.

  “Well, how did you become a systems analyst?” you ask, funny you.

  “The same way anyone becomes anything,” he muses. “I took

  courses and sent out resumes.” Pause. “Patricia helped me work up a great resume. Too great.”

  “Oh.” Wonder about mistress courses, certification, resumes. Per-

  haps you are not really qualified.

  “But I’m not good at systems work,” he says, staring through and

  beyond, way beyond, the cracked ceiling. “Figuring out the cost-effectiveness of two hundred people shuffling five hundred pages back and forth across a new four-and-a-half-by-three-foot desk. I’m not an organized person, like Patricia, for instance. She ’s just incredibly organized.

  She makes lists for everything. It ’s pretty impressive.”

  Say flatly, dully: “What?”

  “That she makes lists.”

  “That she makes lists? You like that?”

  “Well, yes. You know, what she ’s going to do, what she has to buy, names of clients she has to see, et cetera.”

  “Lists?” you murmur hopelessly, listlessly, your expensive beige

  raincoat still on. There is a long, tired silence. Lists? You stand up, brush off your coat, ask him what he would like to drink, then stump off to the kitchen without waiting for the answer.

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  *

  *

  *

  At one-thirty, he gets up noiselessly except for the soft rustle of his dressing. He leaves before you have even quite fallen asleep, but before he does, he bends over you in his expensive beige raincoat and kisses the ends of your hair. Ah, he kisses your hair.

  clients to see

  Birthday snapshots

  Scotch tape

  Letters to TD and Mom

  Technically, you are still a secretary for Karma-Kola, but you wear your Phi Beta Kappa key around your neck on a cheap gold chain, hoping someone will spot you for a promotion. Unfortunately, you have lost the respect of all but one of your co-workers and many of your superiors as well, who are working in order to send their daughters to universities so they won’t have to be secretaries, and who, therefore, hold you in contempt for having a degree and being a failure anyway. It is like having a degree in failure. Hilda, however, likes you. You are young and remind her of her sister, the professional skater.

  “But I hate to skate,” you say.

  And Hilda smiles, nodding. “Yup, that ’s exactly what my sister says sometimes and in that same way.”

  “What way?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” says Hilda. “Your bangs parted on the side or something.”

  Ask Hilda if she will go to lunch with you. Over Reuben sandwiches ask her if she ’s ever had an affair with a married man. As she attempts, mid-bite, to complete the choreography of he
r chomp, Russian dressing spurts out onto her hands.

  “Once,” she says. “That was the last lover I had. That was over two years ago.”

  Say: “Oh my god,” as if it were horrible and tragic, then try to miti-gate that rudeness by clearing your throat and saying, “Well, actually, I guess that ’s not so bad.”

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  “No,” she sighs good-naturedly. “His wife had Hodgkin’s disease,

  or so everyone thought. When they came up with the correct diagnosis, something that wasn’t nearly so awful, he went back to her. Does that make sense to you?”

  “I suppose,” say doubtfully.

  “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” Hilda is still cleaning Reuben off the backs of her hands with a napkin. “At any rate, who are you involved with?”

  “Someone who has a wife that makes lists. She has Listmaker’s disease.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah,” says Hilda. “That ’s typical.”

  clients to see

  Tomatoes, canned

  Health food toothpaste

  Health food deodorant

  Vit. C on sale, Rexall

  Check re: other shoemaker, 32nd St.

  “Patricia’s really had quite an interesting life,” he says, smoking a cigarette.

  “Oh, really?” you say, stabbing one out in the ashtray.

  Make a list of all the lovers you’ve ever had.

  Warren Lasher

  Ed “Rubberhead” Catapano

  Charles Deats or Keats

  Alfonse

  Tuck it in your pocket. Leave it lying around, conspicuously. Somehow you lose it. Make “mislaid” jokes to yourself. Make another list.

  *

  *

  *

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  Whisper, “Don’t go yet,” as he glides out of your bed before sunrise and you lie there on your back cooling, naked between the sheets and smelling of musky, oniony sweat. Feel gray, like an abandoned locker room towel. Watch him as he again pulls on his pants, his sweater, his socks and shoes. Reach out and hold his thigh as he leans over and kisses you quickly, telling you not to get up, that he ’ll lock the door when he leaves.