What Is This Thing Called Love?

by Gene Wilder

  “After seeing you without your father’s coat on . . . and after seeing your paintings . . . I would say that you are already beautiful.”

  “Ahh! Now my driver is also diplomat.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I meant what I said.”

  She studied me for a few seconds without speaking. When our beer arrived she raised her glass and said: “Skol!”

  Ivan, our friendly waiter, looked at me while I took my first sip of Krošovice. After a big swallow I looked up at him.

  “Delicious!”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said. “And now for dinner—”

  “Oh, you pick for us, Ivan,” Katka said. “Surprise us.” Ivan smiled and walked away quickly.

  “What a brave choice, Katka.”

  “I am brave woman,” she answered.

  Ivan brought an assortment of food on a large wooden tray and placed it in the center of our table. When Katka saw how wide my eyes grew, she began to laugh.

  “What you bring us today, Ivan?” Katka asked.

  “Roast duck with red cabbage and dumplings . . . beef with some dill sauce . . . and a little roast pork with fruit dumplings. Just a little bit of each,” Ivan said with a happy grin. “Please enjoy. I’ll bring you more beer right away. Thank you.”

  Katka watched me take my first bite. “These fruit dumplings are almost heaven,” I said.

  “They are not so good in heaven. This is just normal Czech cooking.”

  Two hours later I drove this unusual woman back to her home.

  “You should have let me pay for dinner, Katka. I ate three times more than you.”

  “You don’t pay first time. Was my treat. Are you all right for driving?”

  “Beer doesn’t affect me like wine or whiskey. I’m fine.”

  “Good. May we have a little music, Maxie?”

  “What kind?”

  “Good music,” she answered.

  I put the radio on one of the classical stations and heard the middle of the piece by Dvoák called “Songs My Mother Taught Me.” I loved it because it was so peaceful and always made me feel that there was really nothing to worry about.

  “Oh, good,” Katka said when she heard the music, and then drifted off to sleep.

  When we arrived at her home, I helped my tiny old-world client to the door. Eva, the stout lady, opened it before Katka could put her key in.

  “Oh, Eva,” Katka said as she fell into the stout lady’s arms and kissed her. “We had such wonderful time. No more Mister Baer for this beautiful man—just Maxie now. He liked my paintings, Eva—so much that he cried. Can you believe? So you must be very nice to him.”

  Eva smiled and shook my hand. “You took good care of my girl. Thank you, Mister Max.”

  “I want to show him my studio,” Katka said.

  “Of course you do,” Eva answered. “But you’re sleepy now, my little flower, and maybe a little tipsy, so how about tomorrow?”

  “Will you come tomorrow, Maxie? Please?” Katka implored.

  “I’m free after four in the afternoon. Will that be all right?”

  “Wonderful,” she said. “I see you tomorrow.”

  Katka leaned over and kissed me on both cheeks, as she did to her Czech friends, but her lips lingered on my cheeks a little longer than on theirs.

  “I am very happy, Mister Maxie. I hope you have good dreams,” she said as Eva helped her into the house.

  Adorable woman, I thought to myself as I was driving home. I suppose she puts on such a strong front to cover how vulnerable she must feel because of her frozen grin. You’d better be careful with her, Mister Maxie.

  The next morning I had a nine thirty pickup at LaGuardia Airport. After I took my client to his home in Manhattan,

  I drove to Westport to pick up an elderly couple for a two o’clock drop-offat JFK Airport. While I was there I had an omelet and a cup of coffee, freshened up a little in the men’s room, and then drove to Katka’s home.

  As I pulled up to the farm house Eva was just coming out of the front door. “She’s in her studio, Mister Max . . . the little barn across the field. You want something to eat?”

  “No, I just had lunch. Thank you, Eva.”

  “Good,” she said. “I have to go to Greenwich now to waste my time with a doctor. When I come back I don’t disturb you unless you get hungry. Then you just holler ‘EVA’ and I come running,” she said as she gave me a hug.

  It’s strange how put off I was when I met Eva—I suppose because I was slightly frightened by her size and how imposing she was—and now I adored her for the loving way she took care of Katka, and for her warm acceptance of me.

  I walked across the small field toward the barn. No sheep or cows, but a great many birds and butterflies flying in and out of trees and bushes. They all seemed very much at home. When I reached the barn I saw that the Dutch door was already open. I called out “Yoo-hoo” as I peeked in.

  “Yoo-hoo,” I heard Katka calling back rather softly. When I walked into the dimly lit barn I saw Katka lying on a comfortable-looking couch, in much the same pose as the naked lady in her painting, except that Katka wasn’t naked; she was wearing a very loose-fitting paint-splattered smock.

  “Where’s the naked man on your other couch?” I asked.

  “Come in and maybe we find out,” she said in a somber tone that didn’t seem like her. I walked closer and saw resting on a large easel a half-finished self-portrait of Katka. She was wearing a yellow beret.

  “Is everything all right, Katka?”

  “I’m good now and happy to see you, except—I don’t look good in yellow. I never look good in yellow, so why in hell do I paint myself in yellow beret? Okay, I know why . . . so that you take your eyes away from my stupid grin, which doctor promises will go away any week or month or year now.”

  “I didn’t see the frozen grin in your painting.”

  “Of course! With paint is very easy to make it go away. Never mind. Come sit by me and take off your jacket.”

  I took off my jacket and sat next to her.

  “Take off your tie, too—you’re not driving cars and I’m not your client now. So tell me—how you are, Mister Maxie?”

  “I’m very good. I worked all morning and now I can rest.”

  “Good,” she said. “I want to ask a question.”

  “Sure.”

  “When was last time you had test for sex diseases?”

  It took me a few moments to recover, but of course the sudden frankness of her question was just like her.

  “Six months, just before my divorce.”

  “And?”

  “And everything was fine.”

  “Good! Any sex since six months?”

  “I haven’t thought about sex since then,” I said.

  “Hmm. Is about time, you don’t think?”

  “Are you making a real suggestion, Katka, or are you just playing with me?”

  “I am making real suggestion because I want to play with you,” she said very seriously. It was a little difficult for me not to laugh.

  “What about babies, Katka?”

  “You want babies??” she asked.

  “No, I mean—do you have something to prevent babies? I don’t travel with condoms.”

  “I have IDU in me,” she said.

  “You mean you have an IUD in you.”

  “I just say so,” Katka answered. “Relax about babies. Maybe we have some later. Oh, look here—I find some vodka right next to me. Some accident, huh? You want little sip? It gives me courage.”

  “All right, just a little sip.”

  “Good! Take off your pants and I give you little sip.” Katka saw me holding back a laugh as I took off my pants. “Good for you,” she said. “Is good to laugh. Maybe I give up painting and just make people laugh. What you think?”

  “Don’t give up painting, Katka.”

  “Okay, take off your underwear and is a deal.” I took off my boxer shorts.

  “Oh my! You have go
t something there. I think I could use that,” she said.

  As she took off her painter’s smock and exposed her naked body, she suddenly became nervous. After all that talk I realized that she was shy. She looked away from me and back again, almost giggled twice, and then became very serious. My guess is that she was self-conscious about her frozen grin and was afraid she wouldn’t be able to live up to the wisecracking front she’d been putting on. Well, I was nervous too. I hadn’t been with a woman for a long time and I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing by encouraging Katka’s sexual behavior. And yet . . . I was very attracted to her.

  I sat down next to her, took her face into my hands, and gently kissed her. She stiffened at first, but after a minute or two I could taste the salt from her tears.

  Later that evening, when I was about to leave, Katka put her arms around my chest and hugged me.

  “Will I see you ever again, Mister Maxie?”

  “If you make me laugh again.”

  “I’m going to find good jokes,” she said.

  “Then I’ll see you whenever you wish.”

  “And you won’t mind kissing my stupid grin?” she asked.

  “I’ll be kissing you, Katka . . . not your frozen grin.”

  “. . . Can I see you tomorrow?” she asked like a child.

  “If you want, but I’ll be so tired from driving until ten o’clock at night . . . would you mind if it was the next day?”

  “Okay, deal! Wednesday!” she said and hugged me again as hard as she could, which wasn’t really that hard.

  That night I dreamed that I was swimming underwater with Katka, who was a mermaid. Her beautiful face didn’t have the frozen grin but there were scales all over her little body and long tail. I could pick off a scale and see it float away, but each time I did another scale would pop up. I kept picking and picking while I held my breath, but I was running out of air. I signaled to Katka that I had to leave her and swim up in order to breathe. She stared at me as I swam away.

  I finished late on Wednesday afternoon, took a hot shower, changed into fresh clothes, and went to see Katka.

  I think Eva must have been expecting me. When I pulled into the driveway she came out hurriedly, like a traffic cop, and waved me on toward the studio. I parked my car and as soon as I walked through the open Dutch doors Katka ran up to me with a worried look and flushed face. She was wearing what looked like a doctor’s lab coat.

  “Quick,” she said in a panic. “You know what kolacky is?”

  “No. Is it serious, Katka?”

  “I don’t think so—it’s just pastry Eva made for us,” and she burst out laughing. “Was that good joke?”

  I was angry for only a moment and then pretended to spank her for scaring me.

  “So, you do like me. Good! Come sit and we have some kolacky.”

  “But why are you wearing a doctor’s lab coat?”

  “Is not for real doctors. I throw away my old smock because it has paint all over and I don’t want you to smell paint when you come near to me. Eat some cake. Eva made special for us.”

  I took a bite of kolacky. It tasted like a very subtly spiced cheesecake with some other ingredients that I couldn’t identify. “Mmmm, this is delicious. What did she put in here?”

  “Cream cheese, honey, nutmeg . . . who knows? You want big piece?”

  “Not yet.”

  “You want me?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes. “I taste good too.”

  I nodded yes.

  She hugged me and pulled me onto the soft couch. We made love again but it was different this time. She didn’t cry while we were making love, she laughed. I couldn’t figure her out.

  Afterwards, Katka had a nice supper waiting for us that she heated up on her studio hotplate. Eva had cooked a veal, beef, and pork meatloaf and we drank a Belgian beer I had never heard of.

  While we ate we talked about portrait painting, which I thought I knew a little about, but Katka had an almost encyclopedic knowledge of European painters, going back as far as the Renaissance.

  “Who is your favorite, Maxie?”

  “I love so many painters,” I said as I stuffed my mouth with more of Eva’s meatloaf. “But my two favorites are Manet and Renoir.”

  “Those guys were blessed,” she said.

  “Do you have a favorite, Katka?”

  “You are my favorite, silly boy.”

  “painters!” I said.

  “Oooh . . . Kandinsky, Goya, Velázquez, Mary Cassatt, Rubens . . . too many favorites,” she said.

  It was getting late. I told her that I had to get up early the next morning to go to Boston for three days on business. Then the tears began to flow.

  “Now don’t cry, please. I’ll be back before you can say Jack Robinson, Katka.”

  I knew she wouldn’t have a clue what that meant, and probably wouldn’t be able to say it even if she did. I just wanted to say something silly to comfort her.

  “If I say it, you come back?”

  “Of course.”

  “Jack Rabbit has son Katka . . . that’s what you say?”

  “. . . Yes, that’s what I said. Well—here I am!”

  “H’m! You trick me.” She gave me a big smile and we kissed good night.

  When we reached Boston, my clients went to a seminar on holistic medicine at the Marriott Copley Place hotel. The husband told me to pick them up in three hours. I put their Cadillac into a nearby parking garage, and, since it was a fairly warm afternoon, I took a walk along Huntington Avenue. When I passed the Museum of Fine Arts I saw a gigantic red sign at the top of the stairs that read: renoir exhibition. I went in.

  Walking through each room was like visiting dear friends whom I hadn’t seen in many years. When I came to Renoir’s famous Dance at Bougival I was stunned. I stared at it like an imbecile. The tall man in the painting—who wore a huge straw hat that covered most of his face except for his nose and beard—was dancing with Katka . . . and she was wearing the same white dress and blouse that she wore the first time I saw her . . . and the same red hat . . . and she had the same adorable tiny lips and baby fingers.

  I began to sweat. The tall man in the straw hat was making his amorous intentions only too obvious. He was holding Katka so tightly that I became jealous. I moved closer so that she could hear me.

  “Katka,” I said softly. “Don’t listen to this tall asshole.

  His beard would scratch your face to pieces if he ever kissed you the way I kiss you.” I moved closer and whispered, “I love you, Katka.”

  As I raised my hand to touch her beautiful face, a guard rushed up and shouted: “SIR—YOU CAN’T TOUCH HER! Stay behind the white line. Please!” he said in a threatening voice.

  “But she’s my girl. The tall jerk with the straw hat is . . . is . . .” and I suddenly realized where I was.

  “I’m sorry,” I said as I backed away. “I wasn’t going to harm her, I promise. I had a bad shock today, that’s all. I’m fine now. Please forgive me.”

  The guard looked at me as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do: Was I a poor fellow who didn’t feel well . . . or was I some nut who should be locked up?

  “You’d better get out of here and get some fresh air,” he said almost kindly.

  “I will,” I said. “You’re right . . . I just need a little air.”

  Driving back to Greenwich with my clients, I was grateful they hardly spoke to me during the whole trip; too busy talking with each other about the lecture they heard and all the vegetarians they met.

  As I was driving, the only thing that filled my brain was: Why did I reach out to touch Katka in the museum? . . . not a painting that looked like her, but actually Katka? And why did I get jealous of that tall schmuck in the straw hat who was too chicken to show his face and yet not at all afraid to show off the sexy way he was holding . . . oh my God . . . I’m borderline psychotic. Keep your eyes on the road or you’re going to have an accident.

  It was seven thirty and almost da
rk when I reached Katka’s house. As I walked closer to the open Dutch doors my heart began pounding hard. Why? Of course I’m anxious to see her again . . . but nervous?

  I heard one of Haydn’s trios floating out softly from her studio. When I saw that Katka was asleep on the couch I tiptoed in and was about to surprise her when she suddenly spoke, with her eyes still closed.

  “What makes you think I sleep when I wait for you?” she said.

  “Because I could hear you snoring all the way out in the driveway,” I answered.

  She opened her eyes. “I don’t snore! And I make better jokes than you make. Did you miss me in Boston?”

  “I saw you in Boston.”

  “You didn’t see me. I was here.”

  “I did see you. You were right in front of me, dancing with some tall man in a straw hat. I almost got arrested when I tried to touch you.”

  “H’m. Not such funny joke, but very romantic,” she said as she held out her arms to me.

  While we made love on her couch, I was the one who wept this time. For a few moments I didn’t even know where I was . . . I just knew that I loved her.

  On a sunny July day three months later, we were married by a judge in the small field next to Katka’s studio. Her frozen grin was almost gone and during the ceremony she couldn’t stop smiling. Her father’s overcoat and Eva were our only guests.