Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth

by Edeet Ravel

  “Get up, Rosie. We have to go home.”

  “He envied the people who threw themselves against the electric fence or found a way to hang themselves. Or volunteered to replace someone during a selection. Some of the people who volunteered were heroes, but some of them just didn’t want to live and Daddy wished he could volunteer too. But he thought there was a chance at least one of his sisters was alive because she made it across the border.”

  “I wish I could phone Patrick,” I said. “He’d come get us.”

  “I can’t move. I’ve been buried alive.”

  “Come on, let’s go.” I gripped Rosie’s wrists, helped her up, and led her out of the warehouse.

  As we walked back, she sang her Magic Flute aria about vanishing love. Nimmer kommt ihr, Wonnestunde, Meinem Herzen mehr zurück. Never again will the hour of bliss return to my heart.

  “It feels good, this stuff,” Rosie said when we were back in the house.

  “That’s the point. That’s why people do it. Don’t take any more pills.”

  “I only took one.”

  “Who knows what’s in that stuff! You can’t trust the people who make those drugs. Will you stay in your room now?”

  “Yes, I’m very sleepy,” she said.

  I checked the clock in the foyer; it was four in the morning. Soon it would be light. I drew the curtains in my attic room and slept until noon the following day.

  There was no one downstairs, and I thought at first that everyone had gone for a drive and left me behind. Then I realized I was the only one who was awake.

  I peeked into Rosie’s room. Her black hair was damp with sweat and clung to her flushed cheeks.

  I had coffee and a banana; I walked to Marcel’s store to phone my mother; I walked back; I sat by the lake and read. At four o’clock I opened a can of corn and, standing at the counter Patrick-style, I dug out the starchy kernels. I was starting to wonder whether anyone was ever going to wake up when I heard a soft tread behind me. It was you, Anthony, in bare feet, eyes bleary, unshaven. You were wearing the same trousers, creased now and slightly askew, but you’d put on a clean short-sleeved shirt. Your hair was rumpled and seemed longer today. You opened the faucet and cupped your hands under the cold water, splashed it on your face.

  I said, “Rosie took one of these last night.” I trailed my fingers through the drugs that lay scattered like candies on the counter. “I had to spend half the night walking with her.”

  “Really? What did she take?”

  “I don’t know. She said she only took one, though.”

  “Well, then, she’ll be okay. At least it’s all pure stuff. I wish she’d asked me, though. I would have talked her out of it.”

  “That’s why she didn’t ask. She didn’t want to be talked out of it.”

  You’d shed some of your skins overnight—for no other reason, I guessed, than that you were exhausted and had come down from whatever you’d been on.

  “I’m against drugs,” I said.

  “So am I.”

  “It’s the fault of the pushers. They’re taking advantage of people.”

  “You’re right, Joan. Damn the pusher-man. So, what do you make of my little brother? Figure him out? Pass me some of that superb coffee, please. Instant is my favourite.”

  “I don’t know. He’s a bit … removed.”

  “Removed. Indeed. Now how about we all remove ourselves to a restaurant?”

  You stood behind me and slid your arms around my waist, rested your head on my shoulder. “I’ll get Pat, you get Rosie,” you said. Then you let go and climbed up to the attic, and I followed.

  Rosie stirred as soon as I called her name. She sat up, crossed her legs, and smiled. “Hi, Maya … I feel so strange. What’s going on?”

  “Anthony wants to take us out to eat.”

  “I’m sorry—I kept you up all night!”

  “I didn’t mind. How do you feel now?”

  “Strange. Thirsty.”

  “I’ll make you coffee while you dress.”

  Either in celebration or in a mood of contrition, Rosie decided to wear a white summer dress with a gentle flair at the waist, a low U-shaped dip at the back. My mother had made the dress for her; I’d seen the muslin fabric sliding into the sewing machine, but not the final result. With her hair loose and her skin still winter-white, she looked unscathed and somehow motionless, as though she were turning into porcelain.

  “Ah, what a ravishing, or shall I say ravishable, sight,” you said when you saw her coming down the stairs. You’d shaved and put on your shoes, and your tie dangled untied from your neck. “It breaks the frail heart, that dress. I think my brother is beginning to regain consciousness.” You sat down at the dining-room table and fumbled with your tie. “So, Rosie,” you went on. “I hear you’ve been poking about in my wee collection.”

  “Sorry, I should have asked. Only I knew you’d say no. I still feel strange.”

  “Never mind. Just don’t do it again—this stuff can kill you. Where is that guy?”

  Patrick joined us, groggy and grumbling. “I still don’t understand why you had to wake me up,” he complained.

  You moved the jeep and we climbed into the Mercedes, all four of us off-centre, though for different reasons. Patrick was half-asleep, Rosie was half-high, you were on another plane altogether, and I was worried about Rosie, worried about you. Patrick, I knew, could take care of himself.

  “Ever the old Mercedes,” you said. “Famous Nazi war car. Himmler himself … Hey, remember the Porsche, Pat? Remember the Moving Phallus? Oh, the hopes Mother Moore had for us!”

  Patrick started the car. “Where exactly are we going?” he asked, as if he’d been told but had forgotten.

  “An inn not far from here. Head north, I’ll direct you from there. Remember that seafood place?” You turned to us. “We all had food poisoning, except for Pat, who doesn’t eat seafood. At least there was someone to drive us to the hospital and stop the car when we had to vomit. True family intimacy. We almost died, all three of us. Pat would have been left on his own, a circumstance beyond his wildest dream, isn’t that right, Pat?”

  “I didn’t want you to die, actually,” Patrick said.

  “True, true. You were quite the mother hen at the hospital. Mournful and holy among the beds. Those were the days, my friend.”

  We got lost on the way to the inn—you couldn’t remember the route and someone gave us wrong directions. Twice we had to stop for Rosie, first because she was thirsty and then because she had to pee. Patrick suggested giving up, but you were insistent and said, “A last supper is on the agenda.”

  Finally we found the inn, a gabled, medieval-style château surrounded by lily ponds and extraordinary flowers: incandescent orange, piercing blue, drops of ruby light.

  “‘All night by the rose, rose,’” you recited. “‘ All night by the rose I lay.’ I wish.’”

  “They won’t let us in here,” Patrick muttered.

  “Leave it to me, brother mine.”

  Ignoring the tense look of the desk clerk, you led us through the wide, carpeted lobby straight to the dining room. The maitre d’ barred our way at the entrance.

  “Je suis desolé, I’m very sorry, sir, no jeans permitted.” He meant me and Patrick; you and Rosie were more than presentable.

  “Yes, I know—we’re on assignment, just dashing through with no time to change. And this is the only worthwhile place for miles.” You took out your journalist’s ID and handed it, along with a folded fifty-dollar bill, to the confused man.

  The maitre d’ hesitated, then let us through, maybe because it was early and the restaurant was nearly empty. We were shown to a corner table. Glittering glasses, glittering cutlery, cloth napkins folded into swan shapes.

  “Why do you need to eat at this sort of place?” Patrick asked. “We don’t fit in, we’re just embarrassing ourselves and everyone else.”

  “Not at all, we look like bohemians and artists, which we are, ea
ch in our own way. As for me, I’ve been spoiled by the fine cuisine of Sir Davies of Mooreland.”

  Patrick smiled.

  “What is it?” you asked.

  “Oh, nothing.”

  “Come on.”

  “Nothing, nothing.”

  “Tell big brother Tony.”

  “I was just remembering—” He chuckled with pleasure.

  “That chicken dish with the celery?”

  Patrick nodded.

  It was an unexpected treat, this sidetrack into intimacy. “What happened?” I asked.

  “Oh, we played a trick on Mother Moore. Added several random ingredients to one of our dear cook’s creations.”

  “Well, did she notice?” I asked.

  “I think we gave it away by laughing. Mind you, she’s easily duped.”

  “Funny, Patrick said the exact same thing about your mom.” I pictured the two of you, giggling from behind a doorway, peeking at your gullible mother. Two cute kids, being mischievous. An ordinary family.

  “She said it was an interesting dish and ate it all. We added honey and olives and mayonnaise and apple butter, as I remember.”

  “And herring,” Patrick said joyously.

  “How could I have forgotten! Of course, herring.”

  “How could you forget the herring, man? The herring was the whole point.”

  “And she ate it? I feel sick just hearing about it,” I said.

  “She ate anything Davies made,” you said. “Think she ever got it on with him, Pat? I wonder. Two lonely souls under the same roof.”

  “Could we change the subject?” Patrick suggested. “I’m losing what minimal appetite I had.”

  You laughed, and your laugh was strange and spooky, as if you were inside a cave. “Sorry, sorry. I’ve always been gauche. It’s a terrible liability in my line of work.”

  Patrick said, “I’d think being stoned out of your mind is a liability. You’re going to end up a junkie.”

  “Never fear. The sight of a needle makes me shake all over. I fainted recently during a blood drive.”

  “Who would want your blood? The poor guy who got it would wake up from his operation an addict.”

  “So true.”

  “What do you do, Anthony, exactly?” I asked.

  “Ah, that’s the question—what exactly do I do? I write for a financial journal. I report on the gettings and spendings of various regimes. Fascinating, in its own way. Have I sold my soul, Pat?”

  “How would I know? You’ve never showed me anything you’ve written,” Patrick said, sounding almost offended.

  “Modesty wouldn’t allow it.”

  “Were the two of you friends growing up?” I asked. You and Patrick seemed very close suddenly.

  But you gazed at me blankly, and so did he. Then you cupped my elbow with your hand and said, “You carry a blueprint for utopia in your breast pocket, don’t you, Joan? You do have breasts, I assume. If I’m out of line, just kick me.”

  I leaned over so you could look down my shirt.

  “Well, now. Not exactly hills like white elephants,” you said, peering in, “but perhaps dunes like white moths. Oh, glorious sight. Be still, my heart.”

  “Time doesn’t exist,” Rosie said. “The future, in which we’ve all died, is already here, and the past, before we were born, is already here. Time drifts in and out the window.”

  “Very good, Rosie,” you said gently.

  “Whatever happened to all those people from Bakunin?” I asked. “Mimi, Sheldon, Bruno…”

  “So touching, the faith we had in our capacity to change the world. I don’t know. I don’t know what happened to them, I haven’t kept in touch.”

  “You had a crush on Olga, I think.”

  “How adolescent those feelings seem now, in the light of my more immature feelings for Gloria.”

  “I can’t believe I’m sitting here with you and Rosie and Patrick and we’re all friends,” I said. “I adore everyone!”

  “Why?” Patrick asked.

  “My brother is so cordial,” you said. “I think we should decide what we’re having before Joan here makes us all weep. Ever the vegetarian, Pat?”

  But after the waiter had come and gone, you floundered, as if you’d lost your footing and were waiting for a chance wave to carry you back to shore. You slumped in your chair, looking despondent.

  “Have a drink,” Patrick said, and at that moment the two of you could have been dual projections of a single person, each half revealing the unseen side of the other. Patrick’s agitated dispassion was a mirror reflection of excitability; your iconoclastic monologues were mirror reflections of harried ideology. You loved each other in spite of everything; I wondered whether your mother knew.

  The inn was air-conditioned, and when we came out of the château, the heat seemed artificial for a few seconds, as if we’d stepped onto a movie set.

  You said, “Shall we go dancing? Of course, nightlife in these parts is somewhat limited, but the desk clerk suggested an establishment known as Cheri.”

  “Yes, let’s dance!” Rosie clapped her hands. “Like in that song, The Crucifixion. “Do you like Phil Ochs, Tony?”

  “Can one possibly not like Phil Ochs? After you.”

  I don’t remember the drive to Cheri. We were nearing the longest day of the year and it was still light out, but the club was dark and smoky. Other than that, Cheri didn’t look much like a bar or dance club; the room was too large, the tables too spread out, the curtained windows too respectable. There was a live band, however, and their electronic equipment was on full blast.

  “Look! It’s Jean-Pierre!” I yelled into Rosie’s ear. The lead singer of the band was the boy with the tanned midriff who’d driven Patrick’s Mercedes.

  We sat down at a table and shouted our orders—beer for you and Patrick, a double vodka and orange juice for me. I wasn’t afraid of alcohol, only of drugs. The effects of alcohol were predictable, and they wore off after a few hours, leaving you exactly as you were before. Rosie asked for water, and you nodded your approval. “Never mix eye of newt with toe of frog,” you said. “Maya, may I have this dance?”

  “Oh, Anthony! I can’t,” I moaned. “I have seven left feet.”

  “I’ll dance with you,” Rosie said, and the two of you walked hand in hand to the dance floor. You didn’t jiggle ecstatically like the others; you held Rosie close, prom-style, as if hearing a ballad. It didn’t matter. It was cool to do your own thing, if you knew how to do it. You looked lovely and happy, you and Rosie, and I wanted that moment to be the way things were, always, rather than a brief digression.

  Jean-Pierre spoke between numbers, but his French was too slangy or the volume was too high for me to make out what he was saying. Time drifted in and out the windows, as Rosie had said. Suddenly there was a commotion at one of the tables and we all turned to look. A scruffy-looking guy with shoulder-length hair was writhing on the floor, calling for help. He swung his head from side to side and shouted, “Mon Dieu, aide-moi!”

  “‘Piper, pipe that song again,’” you said. “Now there’s a junkie. Time to go, children.”

  But Rosie didn’t want to desert the junkie. “Can’t someone help him?” she pleaded.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” you said. Patrick paid for the drinks and we left Cheri.

  “Poor thing,” said Rosie, as we walked to the car.

  “Yeah, poor thing,” Patrick echoed, but the parody was absurdly out of place in the circumstances, and because I was slightly drunk, it frightened me.

  We drove back to the cottage in silence; I think we all felt that our outing had started to come apart at the seams. Though it had grown cooler, when we disembarked you decided to go for a swim, so we all stumbled down to the lake. The moon looked dusty under shredded grey clouds, and in the faint light that reached us from the house we were shadowy figures who could have been anybody.

  You stripped and ran into the water with a strange roar. Rosie, still in
her white dress, followed you in.

  I sat on a blanket and watched the two of you splashing under the unfathomable night sky, with its lonely yellow-grey moon and stars that had burnt out four million years ago.

  Rosie waved at me from the lake. “I’m coming out now!” She dragged herself towards the blanket, snuggled up next to me, and fell asleep.

  “We have to take her inside,” I said. “She’s all wet.”

  “I’ll do it,” Patrick said resentfully. With surprising strength he lifted Rosie and slung her over his shoulder, as if she were a wounded soldier. I was sure she’d wake up, and maybe that was the intention, but she didn’t stir.

  You’d found in one of the linen chests a large bath towel decorated with Halloween skeletons, witches on broomsticks, leering pumpkin faces. You draped the towel around your waist and said, “This wayfarin’ stranger wouldn’t mind a bed either. May I join you, Maya? I don’t think I can make it through the night on my own.”

  I said, “Sure,” and we went inside. You lay down on your back on the brass bed. I sat beside you, wide awake.

  “What happened with your wife?” I asked.

  “Oh, it’s a short story. I can’t go into it.” Your voice was slow and easy; it was the unguarded voice you’d revealed to me when you braided my hair that morning on the beach, when I was twelve.

  “How did you meet?”

  “At a party.”

  “Where?”

  “New York. I can’t really get into it.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Gloria? She’s been through a lot.”