Forgetfulness

by Ward Just

  Thomas sat in her overstuffed chair and read two hundred pages, falling asleep somewhere in the Aegean. It was dusk when he awakened with a start. At first he did not know where he was. The room was chilly and unfamiliar. He had a cramp in his thigh, the muscles twitching and needling. He waited until the cramp eased, the odor of wool in his nostrils, then rose and hobbled downstairs to pour a glass of wine, staring out the window at the blowing snow, skidding over the fields, drifting against the garage, a scene not out of place in Siberia. Thomas finished one glass of wine and poured another, thinking now about dinner and what there might be to accompany the remains of last night's roast chicken. The fridge was bare except for eggs and the leftover cheese and terrine and heels of stale bread from Florette's wake, the odds and ends of a confusing afternoon. Nothing looked appetizing and he wondered if Onassis had ever found himself alone in the early evening staring into a desiccated fridge. Not likely. Onassis would never have such a problem. Onassis would shout for a servant to fetch the caviar and toast. Fetch the champagne. Fetch the musicians. Fetch the girl. Now get lost.

  That was the first full day of Thomas's new life.

  Toward nightfall on the twenty-fifth of November Thomas stood at the kitchen counter reading the American newspaper, now two days old, not that it mattered in the Siberian scheme of things. He had been away from America for so long that he read the facts as if they were fiction, tall tales from the new world, blank columns of type side by side like a regiment of infantry, disciplined infantry, trained not to venture into no man's land. He always began with the facts, weather reports from distant cities—raining in Cincinnati, torrid in Riyadh—and moved from there to the Dow Jones Industrial Average, activity on the Paris bourse and the Hang Seng and the Tokyo exchange, and the fluctuations of the dollar vis-à-vis the euro and the yen. Facts anchored the world. He had never seen a basketball game in his life but always consulted the standings of the NBA, the won-lost column, the percentages, and the games-behind, and only then returned to page one and the unstable milieu of reporters' narratives where he had to guess at the life behind the news. What he saw often was the world of his youth, the vast expanse of the Midwest, proper names and place names inspiring buried memories, the strange mnemonics of interior cities: Chicago, Indianapolis, St. Louis. He thought of these reports as light from distant campfires. Thomas always looked for news of Wisconsin but rarely found any. Instead he found column after column of government news from Washington, a vigilant capital ever alert for evidence of provocation from other, more sinister capitals in faraway regions of which little was known. These were tales of unrest. The tone of the reports suggested an America exclusive of other nations, a remote empire on a fabulous continent that worshiped a benevolent god and fortified itself in order to remain apart, a garrison state exempt from natural law and under the special protection of a watchful providence. Yet there was fear in everyday life. Fear itself was healthy, quite normal, for terrorists could strike any time, any place.

  And of the other regions, news reports suggested Conrad's trackless interiors, unknown and unknowable, murderous as a matter of course. Travelers lost their wits when they ventured there, something medieval about their way of life, an urge to turn the clock back and a refusal to accept, even to contemplate, the modern world. Things happened in the torpor of the third world. Nothing worked and everything was cheap. Women, liquor, governments, life itself. Fatalism came with the heat. Whatever compass you brought with you was boxed. You knew that you didn't belong there, at least in your present capacity, whatever it was. All you could count on was a valid passport, a wallet full of greenbacks, and a return ticket home. The irrational became rational. Hard to convince an outsider of the appalling facts of daily life, the furnace-heat, blinding sun all day long, the windless afternoons, the insects, the animals, the heaviness of the night, the bad dreams, the sweat, the surveillance. The fear-no, certainty—that the true rhythm of life went on elsewhere and that you were in a fundamental sense quite irrelevant. You begin by washing three times a day in order to keep clean, a specific against disease. Then the regimen slips to twice a day, then once, and finally every few days until you notice the crud between your toes and elsewhere on your vulnerable body, and meanwhile you're trying to negotiate with the government or simply gather routine information and you hurry the groundwork because you can't wait to get out of the heat, back where you belong, and you screw it up because you forget the most basic procedures, procedures you've followed for a lifetime. You fall into a kind of swoon, deracinated, preoccupied by the past, places you've been, people you've loved, and wonder what it was that has brought you to this point.

  That was what Thomas gleaned from the journalism in the American newspaper.

  All things considered, he preferred the weather reports, the NBA standings, and the traders statistics on the various bourses.

  Thomas turned back to the newspaper, reading the report from Guantá;namo, a detailed discussion of the methods of torture, what was justified and what wasn't under the codes of the Geneva Convention. He was brought up short by a photograph on the following page, a private ceremony marking the anniversary of the assassination of John F. Kennedy, the surviving brother and surviving daughter alone at the president's grave at Arlington, their heads bent in prayer. Thomas stared at the photograph a long time, remembering Kennedy as a young man, a golden prince of a man, a young Tannhäuser; and then the biographies and memoirs came and he was no longer golden nor much of a prince but a man pursuing Venus fully as recklessly as many other men but without the redemption promised the penitent Tannhäuser. Perhaps Kennedy would have repented, too, but there was no time. No doubt he was undone by Washington's torpor, where the irrational so quickly became rational.

  Thomas was in his New York studio when the news came. He was sketching a girl who had offered to model for an afternoon. The telephone rang and rang but they did not answer, believing they were safest alone; instead, the model called her mother to make sure that she was all right and that their neighborhood in Baltimore was secure. He stayed with the model, Karen, that night and the next night and the night after, watching television with the sound off. The pictures told the story. He made a hundred sketches, and when he wasn't drawing he and Karen made love. In the sketches he tried to see her fresh each time and tried to bring something of the moment to it. He had to come to terms with November 22, to bring the wreckage of the day into her face and figure. He could not pretend it was some other day, an ordinary day in November, overcast, the weather cool. At night he decided to use the bare expanse of the south wall of the studio and began a portrait in oil, Karen lying sprawled in the tangled sheets, a troubled spirit even in sleep, her arms set at unnatural angles. She seemed to be in motion, her face resembling the sleek crest and pointed red beak of a bird, her eyes hooded. Her hands clawed the bedsheets. When she woke, Karen was abashed and not entirely pleased. She did not recognize herself, though the bed was familiar enough. She thought it was another girl. She turned her back on it and flounced into the kitchen to make coffee and when she returned she was in tears.

  Such an ugly piece, she said. And you draw so nicely. Who is she? What does it mean?

  He didn't know what it meant and told her so. It was what it was and would remain permanently on the south wall of the studio, next to the double windows. The next day he caught her looking at it out of the corners of her bird eyes. While they were watching the funeral she said the portrait was growing on her and it might surprise him to know that she saw something of herself in it. Ugly as it was. Somber as it was. Very well, he said, I'll call it K Number One. The riderless horse and the throng of mourners were shuffling down Pennsylvania Avenue when she suddenly reached to turn off the television. She said, Come to bed. They were together one year and in that time he painted six K's, each of a radically different mood. The original did remain on the studio wall but all the others he sold, and with the money he decided to go to Europe. He described the grand time they would
have together but she refused to go with him. I could never live abroad, she said. I could never leave my mother. My place is here. I would like to have a child, she said, but I know that's not in your future. This is your future, she said, gesturing at the sketches and the portrait on the south wall. He said tentatively, You wouldn't have to stay if you didn't like it. Don't you think we need a change of scene? Karen smiled enigmatically and remarked that he was lucky, to love a thing as much as he loved his work.

  When Thomas looked up from the newspaper he noticed lights downstairs in St. John Granger's farmhouse. A thin rope of smoke rose from the chimney. The night was cold and dead calm, the sky brilliant with stars. He was happy seeing the lights and the chimney smoke; no doubt Ghislaine had decided to clean house at last. Thomas was laying a fire when he heard a knock at the door, three sharp, official-sounding raps. Thomas had seen no one for days and he did not want company now. He was remembering the model Karen, a girl with the most beautiful shoulders since Garbo, with a smile to match; when he left for Europe she had gone west to find work in films, but the West had not worked out and she returned to New York and married a diplomat posted to the United Nations, an Argentine or a Brazilian, a successful marriage so far as he knew. K Number Two was now in Milwaukee, an acquisition that caused the resignation of two museum trustees and prompted a furious editorial in one of the newspapers. The headline read: "Pornographic Trash."

  Another knock, louder than the others.

  Thomas was not interested in talking with anyone just then, quite content to rummage about in his memory as he read bits and pieces of the newspaper. It seemed to him that he had not had a conversation in months, discounting his nocturnal discussions with Florette; that was enough, except now Karen had interfered, and someone was at the door.

  She was American, fiftyish, bundled in a green parka and ski hat, a tartan scarf around her throat, sealskin boots on her feet. A fringe of gray hair peeked from under the hat. She stood in the doorway shivering, introducing herself as Victoria, no last name, from Pennsylvania, no city specified, direct descendant of St. John Granger. His heir, she added. I would like to speak with you, she went on, handing Thomas a bottle of wine, an excellent vintage that he recognized as living in Granger's cellar. He took her parka and indicated the chairs by the fireplace. She removed her gloves finger by finger, with some difficulty because she wore heavy diamond rings on her left hand and a single square-cut sapphire on her right. She handed him the gloves and said she would keep her scarf. She rubbed her hands together, rattling her bracelets. Thomas again indicated the chairs by the fireplace but she waited a moment before moving. This dreadful place, she said. Do you always keep your houses so cold? I wonder how you stand it. Did the old man freeze to death? I don't know why anyone would want to live in a climate like this. So hostile.

  I arrived today, she added. To inspect the place.

  It's a fine house, Thomas said. Granger and I had many good times there. I'm sorry he's gone.

  I never met him, Victoria said. No one in the family had. He was a mystery man. But he left the house to me in his will. She looked here and there in the living room, a strained expression on her face. She went on, I am his only relative. And my children. Of course they are his relatives also. She moved closer to the fire, warming her hands. I would have called but I didn't have your number. I don't know how the phones work anyhow. Do you wait for a dial tone?

  They're ordinary phones, Thomas said. He pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses. Your health, he said, watching her sip slowly and taste with evident suspicion.

  Too much tannin, she said.

  Do you think so?

  Definitely, she said. And it's weak. Past prime.

  I agree it's lost some shape. He held his glass to the light, appraising the color of the red. He said, Granger spent eighty years putting his cellar together. Bordeaux red, mostly. Some of the bottles could be sold at auction. If you don't care for this wine, that might be a good solution.

  I will, definitely. Thank you, Mr. Railles.

  I might buy some of it myself. And call me Thomas.

  Thank you, Tom.

  Thomas, he said. Only my mother ever called me Tom.

  Very well, she said. Thomas.

  In the awkward silence that followed she looked around the room once again, eyes narrowing as if she were measuring for curtains. She said, I hope I'm not intruding.

  Not at all, he said.

  The notaire told me you were a painter.

  That's right, he said.

  Portraits.

  Yes, he said.

  So. Are any of these yours?

  This one. He pointed to the likeness of Florette over the fireplace. And that one, he said, indicating St. John Granger on the far wall near the refectory table. She made no comment or any sign of recognition.

  He said, Will you be here long?

  As little time as possible. I wanted my husband to come with me but he refused. He had business in San Francisco. It's just as well. He does not care for France, whereas I adore it. She moved her wineglass out of reach and said, I intend to put the house on the market at once.

  Good idea, Thomas said.

  I have no use for it. I prefer Paris to the countryside.

  Many do, Thomas said, refilling his glass.

  It is a beautiful city. The French don't deserve it.

  He had no answer to that.

  What do you think about a price?

  Price of what?

  My house—what did you think I meant? The house here.

  I have no idea, he said.

  You must have an idea. You live here.

  I would ask the notaire. The notaire knows the price of everything.

  I've been told he's a scoundrel.

  Thomas cocked his head thoughtfully. Her information was sound and he wondered where she got it from. Monsieur Villaret was two hundred and fifty pounds of chicanery and bad faith, one to be avoided at all costs, yet he was unavoidable if you intended to do business in St. Michel du Valcabrère. This surly American woman would be no match for him. Villaret was known in the village as Monsieur Corpse-counter. He knew where all the bodies were buried. Thomas said, Unfortunately, he is the man to see.

  I don't trust him, she said.

  No one does. But that's beside the point.

  He speaks no English, she said.

  He speaks a little, Thomas said.

  All the same, I intend to have my own lawyer from Paris.

  Very wise, Thomas said. That will help a great deal.

  You don't sound convinced.

  I'm afraid that in his domain Monsieur Villaret is king.

  Small potatoes, she said, nodding decisively. I think my lawyer will be able to handle him. Victoria went on to describe the lawyer from Paris. He and his American wife lived in a hôtel particulier in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, a very well-known address that had been visited often by the friends of Marcel Proust. The wife was a patron of the arts. The lawyer rode horses. He had outstanding connections in the government, including an extremely close friendship with the president of the republic.

  He knows how things are done in the provinces, so my little problem is as good as settled, don't you see...

  Thomas took another swallow of wine, his attention wandering. He was remembering the model, her Garbo shoulders and quick smile, her green eyes and good cheer, always ready for anything. They had had a wonderful collaboration. Karen loved to pose as much as he loved to paint. For the time they were together they were indispensable to each other. At night they haunted the downtown artists' bars, where things were always just slightly out of hand. But when the time came for him to leave she refused to go with him, insisting that her destiny was to live and die in America with a man who loved her and wanted to be father to her children. She and New York City were soul mates. That was what yoga had taught her. Thomas never understood about yoga, as he never understood the attraction to America. Last he heard, Karen and the d
iplomat had gone back to Rio or Buenos Aires, one or the other. The diplomat had persuaded her to change homelands, something she said she would never do, no matter what. Probably the diplomat had promised a child, in fact had insisted on it, muchos niños. Thomas hoped to God Karen was happy. She deserved a rich and uncomplicated happiness.

  So there won't be any trouble with the notaire.

  I certainly hope not, Thomas said.

  The fat boy's history.

  I'm glad to hear it, he said, imagining the sleekly coiffed and tailored Paris lawyer and Monsieur Villaret in close conversation in the notaire's office across the street from the Mairie, the walls crowded with dossiers in file folders. The meeting would take place toward the end of the day; the Parisian would have brought a bottle of something, probably calvados. They would toast each other, then discuss precisely how the pie would be cut, the size of the slices, and how much of it would remain for their American client.

  Victoria nodded sharply, case closed. And then she murmured, I'm very sorry about your wife.

  Thomas took a step backward, startled by the sudden change of subject. He said, Yes. Well. Thank you.

  The experience must have been terrible for her.

  Yes, he said. It was.

  And for you, too, of course.

  Yes.

  The notaire said she died in a fall on the mountain. Yes, she did.

  And that there were others involved.

  Yes, there were.

  And she was abused.

  Abused?

  Yes, they abused her. That was what the notaire told me.

  It took Thomas a moment to understand the word, to understand it as she apparently wished it to be understood, this contemporary American word that did not exactly fit the situation. Abused? They cut Florette's throat. He said, I suppose you could say that.

  Ghastly, she said. I'm so sorry.

  He nodded slowly, an acknowledgment. He said, I wish you good luck with the notaire. If I hear anything about prices, I'll let you know.