Holly looked at the jar again. “The problem with these recipes,” she said, “is that they always call for two tablespoons of whatever, so you run out and buy a whole bottle of grapeseed oil, which you won’t have any reason to use ever again in your life, and so the bottle will stay in your cupboard, and probably move with you several times.” She looked over at Charlotte with a smile.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I find that’s true with … with …” She couldn’t think of anything, so she just repeated, “I find that’s true.”
Holly removed the baguette, butter, olives. “I hope this turns out all right,” she said. “You can’t ruin loin of pork, can you?”
“We’ve had delicious dinners at your place!”
Holly rolled her eyes. “That’s nice of you to say. I’ve been trying to learn from my father over the past few years. I usually have to call him when I’m about halfway through.”
She removed a bunch of parsley from a bag and unwound the rubber band that bound it. “I think the greatest revelation I have had so far in my not very distinguished career as a cook is that parsley could actually be chopped up and used in a dish. Growing up, I never saw it except when they put it next to a steak in a restaurant.”
Charlotte felt she ought to say something in response to this. “That’s one thing they didn’t do in restaurants in Paris.”
Holly laughed. “I don’t imagine they did. It was different in Chicago.”
Instantly, Charlotte felt bad for having played the Paris-childhood card. “Oh, Holly,” she said. “How rude of me! Wouldn’t you like a drink?”
“I completely forgot,” Holly said. She pulled a bottle out of a bag. “I brought this for you. It’s sort of like one of those aperitifs that I know are favorites of yours. I don’t know if you know it. It’s kind of hard to find, even in France.”
Charlotte looked at the label. She was surprised to find that she didn’t recognize the name. “I don’t think I’ve ever had this,” she said. “Thanks, Holly, that’s really thoughtful of you. Why don’t we have some right now?”
“I’d love a drink. Maybe a couple, to calm my cooking nerves.”
Charlotte put ice in short glasses and poured the drinks; the liquid looked like a more golden version of sherry. Now what? It wasn’t very comfortable standing in the tiny kitchen, either physically or psychologically, and Charlotte didn’t want to look over Holly’s shoulder while she cooked. Yet the food preparation did provide a distraction and an opportunity for lots of busywork. Still, Holly had not sat down since she arrived. And anyway, what kind of mouse was Charlotte that she couldn’t sit and make conversation with Holly for ten minutes? Charlotte determined to be at her ease and to be a good hostess.
“If you’ve got things organized,” she said, “why don’t we sit down for a minute if you’d like?”
They took their drinks into the living room and presently they were settled, with Holly in one corner of the love seat, and Charlotte in the chair near its opposite end.
Charlotte sipped her drink. “Mmm. This is delicious,” she said.
“Isn’t it good?”
A moment passed while they savored their drinks. Charlotte realized that she had hardly ever been alone with Holly before. In fact, Charlotte couldn’t think of a single substantive conversation the two of them had ever had. She felt a quiver of social panic. What on earth would they talk about?
Just then, Holly spoke. “God, Charlotte, that’s such a beautiful painting,” she said. She had been looking at the painting above the mantel, which was opposite the love seat.
Charlotte glanced over her shoulder and smiled reflexively. “Oh, yes, thanks.”
“I’m not sure I have ever heard the full story of it. I think you said—didn’t your father give it to you for your birthday? When you turned twenty-one?”
“That’s right. Papa and Julia, my stepmother, gave it to me.”
“What a great thing. Didn’t you once say that the artist was a friend of your father’s? But no, that can’t be right.”
“Well.” Charlotte took another sip of her drink. “Well, I’ll tell you. Before law school, my father lived in Paris for a year. He’d studied art in college, and he would wander around galleries and antiques shops.” And so Charlotte began to tell the story, as she had so often. What struck her this time, though, was that Holly interrupted to ask questions. Had the old woman painted at all herself, what happened when she met Charlotte’s mother, did the painter leave any drawings? It seemed to Charlotte that no one had ever asked her a question when she had told this story before and, in fact, if she were honest with herself, she was always conscious of a chasm opening up between herself and her auditors. On this occasion, the experience was quite different. Holly’s questions were very interesting to answer. The painter had been a gifted draftsman, in fact. Charlotte’s father had collected many of his drawings.
As they talked, Charlotte asked herself in one part of her mind, Why was Holly being so nice? But suspicions could gain no foothold. Charlotte was enjoying herself. They had another drink.
Holly looked around at the papers that lay on the floor before her.
“Okay, so what exactly is this conference that you’re organizing?” she asked.
“Well it’s—I’m certainly not organizing the whole thing, I’m just one of the people. It’s something that happens just about every year, when people from all over come. This is the first time it’s been held in Paris for a pretty long time, so it’s an especially big deal. There will be lots of events. For example—are you really interested in this?” It was highly unusual for Charlotte to ask such a question. Typically, once set out on a course of explaining one of her pet subjects, she beat on without stopping, for the contradictory reasons that, on the one hand, she assumed everyone shared her passion, and, on the other, she feared that if she did stop, she would allow the opportunity for the others’ boredom to erupt into the open.
But Holly said, “Sure!”
So Charlotte began to tell Holly all about the conference and its various symposia, colloquia, forums, and panels. The Code Napoléon: Twenty-First-Century Perspectives. Technical information in French. Le Jazz de la Francophonie. Charlotte had worked hard to learn the names for the different styles: makossa, Cameroon; ikalanga, Gabon; bembeya, Guinea Bissau. And there was this star coming from Vietnam, Trahn Vam … oh no, she couldn’t remember his name! Holly asked questions, and they even had a laugh or two. Eventually, her main remarks having run their course, Charlotte fell silent for a moment and got a bashful look on her face.
“Do you want to know what I’m really excited about?” she asked without looking at Holly.
“Of course.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, her voice quickening, “this year, it might just happen, we aren’t sure and so it would be bad to get our hopes up too much, but it might just happen this year that Maine is granted Observer Status.”
“Maine. Our Maine?”
“Oh, yes. Observer Status is the lowest ranking. But wouldn’t it be wonderful? You see, there are French-speaking communities in Maine that go back generations, and after decades when the language was suppressed, it’s having a real revival. New Brunswick is right next door, and it has become a full member after having been an associate for a while. There have been all sorts of complications and it’s failed in other years, but this time it looks as if we have a shot. I’ve been working really hard on it.”
“You mean,” Holly said, “you’d have guys from Maine meeting there with people from Paris and Geneva and, you know, Cambodia and, what, the Congo—?”
“Both Congos.”
“Both Congos!”
Holly laughed and Charlotte did too.
“Oh, Charlotte,” Holly said, “that would be fantastic. Oh, I hope it happens! You would feel so proud.”
Something in Holly’s tone startled Charlotte. Holly sounded sincere. Charlotte spent her entire life looking around the corners of things people said to her.
She could let down her guard with Peter, and a couple of really old friends, but practically no one else. Here, though, she found Holly’s conversation to have no corners, no other side. The effect on her was far stronger than was sensible, given the straightforward subjects under discussion. Charlotte could not quite account for the feeling of easiness that had come over her. Holly’s utterances seemed to arrive along two channels: the words, which were friendly, but nothing out of the ordinary; and the tone of voice, which operated on a wavelength that penetrated Charlotte’s armor. No one listening to a recording of what Holly had said would understand what Charlotte felt: there was no extraordinary “delivery” on Holly’s part, but there was something solid in her tone, and something gentle about it, which was rare.
And now Charlotte began to feel a little odd. She liked the drink that Holly had brought very much, and she may have begun to be the slightest bit tipsy, but that could not account for the sensation. She looked around the room and it seemed to be bathed in a soft, golden glow. She settled into her chair, and the upholstery plushly bulged around her. The air itself in the room seemed clear and fresh, but with enough warmth to make its gentle presence felt, as if it had been boxed up on a sunny spring day and delivered to Charlotte’s apartment. Charlotte looked at Holly. How beautiful she was! How graceful! How melodious her voice was, like the piping of a shepherd boy. That was how Charlotte put it to herself, although she had never heard a shepherd boy pipe. She began to laugh, and Holly asked her what was so funny, to which she replied “Nothing, nothing” before beginning to laugh again. Beautiful, wonderful Holly! Charlotte’s hands tingled with the desire to stroke Holly’s soft hair, to hold her hand and stroke her arm, to kiss her cheeks. Of course, Charlotte had had crushes on females, and in one case it had come to something, allowing Charlotte to check that experience off her list. Her present feeling was different. True, a low-voltage sexual current ran through it, but what she really felt was—what? Love? She just loved Holly. She felt happy in her presence. It was so strange. Charlotte was always trying. Trying to do something, trying to fulfill some requirement, either of duty or fashion, trying so hard to be good and correct, in ways that no one appreciated, not even Peter. But for the moment, for reasons that she could not discern, she found she did not have to try. To think of how nervous Holly had always made her, and yet in Holly’s company right now she felt like a cat who’s found a warm spot on the floor, like a sentry relieved of duty.
They talked for a while longer, about all sorts of things—their mothers (Holly’s was vague but loving, prompting Charlotte inwardly to give all praise to vague but loving mothers), stepmothers (they had both had one, though Holly’s had lasted only a year); the trials of a friend of Charlotte’s whose children were monsters. Throughout, Charlotte’s sense of placid well-being only deepened; she would have gathered Holly up in her arms and petted her if such a thing had been appropriate. Then Holly looked at her watch and became startled.
“Oh my God!” she said. “Look what time it is! I’ve got to start cooking or you and Peter will starve before I’m done!”
“Don’t worry,” Charlotte said. “Peter’s playing hockey and he’s always late.”
“But still!” Holly rose and took a step toward the kitchen. “I haven’t even begun!”
The thought of separating from Holly almost panicked Charlotte, a problem that she solved brilliantly, in her own estimation.
“Well,” she said, rising herself, “then I’ll help. That should make it go faster.”
“But what about all the last-minute stuff you have to do?” asked Holly, motioning to the papers and binders and folders on the floor.
Charlotte dismissed the work with a wave of her hand.
“Do you really mean it?” Holly asked.
“Sure, I’d love to.”
“Er, okay,” Holly said, looking at Charlotte a little dubiously. “That would be great.”
Charlotte and Holly went to the kitchen. Holly read out the recipe and assigned Charlotte her tasks. The kitchen was so small that, as they worked, it was unavoidable that their hands and arms would accidentally touch. They stood hip to hip and shoulder to shoulder. Their bodies would graze as one passed the other. Their hands became juicy and oily and they both had some flour on their faces. Charlotte felt so happy! Food and mess; and that bottle, which they had of course brought to the kitchen; her wonderful new friend. They got a Latin music station on the radio and turned it up.
Charlotte was cutting fresh figs in half; the feel of their furry pulp and the juice that ran on her fingers, and the look of their loose, liquid, swollen, purplish, drop-shaped insides, and their sweet smell—you could smell the Mediterranean sun—all of these made Charlotte quiver.
The two gabbled on, and eventually the conversation turned to the subject of men. This was not inevitable, for Charlotte had always been reticent in discussions of romantic matters with her female friends. Except for a period in the seventh grade, she hadn’t been one to be on the phone constantly talking about boys. For a while, they discussed this and that person who was hopelessly in love or who had been hopelessly hurt, and then Charlotte took a death-defying leap into the personal.
“And what about you, Holly?” she asked. “How are you? How is it without Jonathan?”
Holly was chopping onions and didn’t answer for a moment.
“I’m fine,” she said. “In a way, my entire time with Jonathan seems like a dream, and now I have woken up and things are normal. He was like that. And what happened was so sudden. He was just suddenly gone, poof. We didn’t have children, and we hadn’t really settled down somewhere, living in his bachelor pad. So we hadn’t constructed and settled into a whole life that was destroyed, if you know what I mean. Anyway, yes, I miss him.” Holly smiled and shook her head. “Jonathan was not the model husband. But I miss him. But basically I’m fine.”
They worked a bit in silence. Then it was Holly’s turn to ask Charlotte about herself.
“So? You and Peter? The newlyweds? Everything going well?”
“I think so,” said Charlotte. “I know I’m happy, and I think Peter is. Although I also know that I am definitely the one who got the better deal.”
“Now, Charlotte—”
“Oh, it’s true. The thing about Peter, he’s just so solid. He’s so good, and he is so lacking in any complexes or weirdnesses, really. He’s attentive and patient. He’s true, you know? I’d say ‘normal,’ but that makes it sound as if he’s dull, and he’s not dull. I mean normal but the highest level of normal. Does that make any sense?”
There was a pause, and then Holly spoke. “I think what you mean is ‘ideal.’”
“You’re right, Holly!” said Charlotte. “You understand.” She had been looking down, snapping beans, and with this remark she looked up at Holly and saw that she was teary-eyed. “Holly!” Charlotte said. “You’re crying! I’m sorry!” The sight of Holly in pain made Charlotte’s heart shudder.
“Please.” Holly laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s the onions.” She scraped the chopped onions into a pan where she had heated oil, and they sizzled loudly.
Peter arrived shortly thereafter and leaned into the kitchen to survey the preparations.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked. “I guess, from the looks of things, something delivered from the Indian place?”
“Peter!” said Charlotte. “How can you say that! Thanks to Holly, we are going to have an exquisite meal.”
“And thanks to my expert sous-chef,” said Holly.
“I’m sorry,” said Peter. “I didn’t mean … it was just that, from appearances, it seemed that, you know, the menu hadn’t quite gelled.”
“‘From appearances’!” Charlotte said. “I guess you aren’t aware that when a cook like Holly is really inspired and imaginative, there are certain improvisations and so the kitchen may have an air of creative tumult. It’s her process. Right, Holly?”
“Er, right.”
“Everything is g
oing to come together beautifully,” said Charlotte. “So, Peter, my sweet”—Charlotte pushed him away with her fingertips while giving him a peck on the cheek—“why don’t you just go into the living room and make yourself a scotch—”
“We don’t have any scotch—”
“Go along now.”
Peter went into the living room and read a magazine.
The dinner ended up being pretty good. Holly had made a dish of thinly sliced potatoes and cream that qualified as delicious. The conversation flowed along happily, led by an unusually vivacious Charlotte. They drank a fair amount of wine. The three of them were eating a flourless chocolate cake and drinking some more wine when Holly lightly tapped on her glass with a fork.
“I’d like to propose a toast,” she said.
Peter and Charlotte looked at Holly and at each other and back at Holly.
“I didn’t give a toast at your dinner, so I’d like to do it now. A toast to you and your love for each other.” She took a deep breath. “As you may know, various people over the years have spoken and written on the topic of love. Some of the writers whom I would teach to my students if they were advanced enough, which they aren’t, wrote of it very eloquently and sometimes very coarsely. So I doubt I will say anything original or profound or even very coherent, but I am inspired by this company to say something.
“Um … let’s see … well—first of all, let me say, I have the utmost respect for the Buddha. I think he thought thoughts in five hundred BCE that were truly excellent. Now, Buddha promulgated the four noble truths, and let me refresh your memory of what they are: all existence is suffering, the cause of all suffering is desire, freedom from suffering is nirvana, and nirvana is attained through the eightfold path of ethical conduct, wisdom, and mental discipline. Not having founded a religion that has had millions upon millions of adherents over the past twenty-five hundred years, I am hardly in a position to criticize, but I personally don’t accept the validity of all four of the noble truths. I don’t know if all existence is suffering. Most cats aren’t suffering, as far as I can tell; people at a movie that they really like aren’t suffering. But the second noble truth is definitely true, to my mind. All suffering does come from desire. Definitely. Number three: Absolutely. Totally. The extinction of self, that desiring self, leads to freedom. And as for the last one, yes, sure, the eightfold path, I’m all for it, one hundred percent.
Love In the Air Page 17