Interviewing Matisse, or the Woman Who Died Standing Up

by Lily Tuck

  Interviewing Matisse or

  The Woman Who Died Standing Up

  A NOVEL BY

  Lily Tuck

  Dedication

  TO EDWARD

  I THANK GORDON LISH, MICHELLE HUNEVEN, SUZANNE MCNEAR, AND EDMÉE MONTANDON.

  Epigraph

  Probable nor’-east to sou’-west wind, varying to the southard and westard and eastard and points between; high and low barometer, sweeping round from place to place; probable areas of rain, snow, hail, and drought, succeeded or preceded by earthquakes with thunder and lightning.

  —MARK TWAIN

  Contents

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  The Woman Who Died Standing

  About the Author

  Praise

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  The Woman Who Died Standing

  Molly said, “She died standing up.”

  I said, “What?”

  Molly said, “Standing up. Inez. Hello?”

  I said, “Hello, Molly. Who? Inez?”

  Molly said, “They found Inez propped up—propped up like a broom.”

  I said, “Inez? Like a what? A broom? God, Molly. What time is it?”

  Molly said, “In the corner of the room. Inez was dressed in only her underwear. She was wearing boots.”

  I said, “Boots? Wait. Let me turn on the light, Molly. God, Molly, it’s one o’clock in the morning. It’s quarter past one in the morning, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Old fleece-lined boots. Do you know the kind I am talking about, Lily? The old-fashioned kind. Galoshes.”

  I said, “Galoshes? You woke me up, Molly. Hello?”

  Molly said, “The kind of boots with buckles. The kind of boots you might wear in the snow or wear in the winter.”

  I said, “Winter? No, today is May twenty-third.”

  Molly said, “Yesterday. Yesterday was May twenty-third—Tuesday. Claude-Marie said they found Inez on Tuesday.”

  I said, “Where? Found Inez where, Molly? Oh, God, poor Inez.”

  Molly said, “Strange, isn’t it? Isn’t this the strangest thing you’ve ever heard, Lily? Not just about the boots, strange about gravity. Gravity—I am not even going to get into gravity. And I am no scientist, Lily. But you don’t have to be a scientist to know about gravity. Everyone knows about gravity. Little kids know about gravity. Still—I have never, no, I have never heard of anything like this—have you, Lily? Like Inez? Like someone dying standing up? Have you ever in your whole life? Lily? Hello? Are you there?”

  I said, “Oh, God, Molly, are you calling me all the way from Connecticut?”

  Molly said, “In her bra and her panties and Inez was wearing those boots, those galoshes, and Inez was standing right there as you stepped out of the old elevator. The decrepit old freight elevator—remember? Hello, Lily?”

  I said, “Hello, yes. I am here. I am right here, Molly. You know what I thought of when the phone rang? I thought: Oh, my God, this may be Leonard.”

  Molly said, “I am not even in bed yet. I am not even undressed yet. What time did you say it was? Quarter past one?”

  I said, “My watch is ten minutes fast. It’s twenty after.”

  Molly said, “But what was I saying? Oh—the elevator—remember? You have to man that elevator yourself and no one is ever there to fix it if it stops or if it gets stuck. It did once. Yes, swear to God. The woman still in the elevator kept shouting: Get me out of here! I can hear her. I can hear her shouting clear as day and as if it were yesterday.”

  I said, “Oh, my God, Molly, Inez.”

  Molly said, “No, not Inez. The woman. The woman in the elevator, but yes, Lily—poor Inez. Yes. Inez was standing right there as you got out of the elevator and one of her arms was reaching out.”

  I said, “What? Inez’s arm? Hello, Molly, I can hardly hear you. Can you speak into the receiver?”

  Molly said, “Hello—is this better? Inez’s arm was what I said and as if Inez was about to shake someone’s hand or as if Inez had just finished shaking someone’s hand only—and this was what Claude-Marie said. Claude-Marie said, you could have missed her—missed Inez. Claude-Marie said, if, for instance, you had stepped out of the old elevator really quickly because the old elevator had made it and you were relieved and you weren’t really thinking and you walked into the room without really looking, the way people do, you could have walked right past her—past Inez was what Claude-Marie said.”

  I said, “Molly, Molly, I can still barely hear you. There is something wrong with this phone. I could barely hear Leonard either when he telephoned.”

  Molly said, “Lily, can you hear me now? I am shouting and my throat is going to get sore, and what I am talking about is how Claude-Marie said you could have walked right past her—past Inez—and how you could have walked right past the gardenia plants.”

  I said, “Gardenia plants? Oh, now I can hear you. I can hear you fine, Molly. It’s the rain, maybe. It rained all day yesterday.”

  Molly said, “At least half a dozen gardenia plants—remember how all of them were always in bloom? Inez had a way with them—a green thumb was what. And remember, Lily, how Inez would sometimes put a gardenia in her hair? God, Inez had thick hair. God, how I envied Inez’s hair. Lily?”

  I said, “No, I love your hair. You have wonderful hair, Molly.”

  Molly said, “I am still sitting here at my desk and I cannot stop thinking—thinking about the gardenias and all the trouble Inez went to. The stand she had built for them especially. The stand right underneath the skylight and right where the plants got all the light. Light is the one thing I do know, Lily. Light is important.”

  I said, “Poor Inez. I was sound asleep when you called, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Yes, poor Inez, but what I started to tell you was how Claude-Marie said you could have walked right past the gardenia plants and right past the big butcher block counter where Inez used to chop up the vegetables, and remember how Inez was also always talking to someone on the telephone? Inez had this extra long extension cord, and Inez could talk for hours on the phone—and as Claude-Marie said, you could have kept right on walking, walking past the couch, the secondhand couch Inez was always talking about and saying how she would get rid of it—throw the couch out—how she would put the couch out on the street for the bums to sleep on, and how she would buy another, a brand new leather couch that she had seen a picture of and that she had her heart set on.”

  I said, “The couch? Molly, this is what I said. I liked the couch. I kept telling Inez not to sell the couch. I kept telling Inez the couch was an antique—unique.”

  Molly said, “Claude-Marie said the stereo was on. The brand-new stereo was tuned to the station Inez always listened to. The one with practically no commercials, the one with almost continual classical music.”

  I said, “Oh, the stereo belonged to Kevin. I know the stereo belonged to Kevin, Molly. The speakers, though—the speakers belonged to Inez.”

  Molly said, “The bedroom was where Claude-Marie said you would have gone to next, Lily. You would have walked on past the couch to where the bathroom was and to where the bedrooms were. The bedroom Inez slept in and the bedroom she had let to Kevin, and Claude-Marie said you would have looked for Inez in there—in the bedroom—and you would have called out: Inez, Inez, where are you? Inez?”

  I said, “Poor Inez.”

  Molly said, “This was what Claude-Marie said: Poor Inez dressed in only her underwear and wearing those old galoshes. You know what I said, Lily? I said to Claude-Marie: Don’t forget the blue-and-white silk k
imono Inez always wore. The kimono Malcolm brought back to Inez from the trip he took to Japan—to where was it, Lily—to Kyoto?”

  I said, “Molly, I know, I know. I wore the kimono. I wore the kimono to a costume party. Molly, hello? I spilled sake on it.”

  Molly said, “I know what you are thinking, Lily. You are thinking what difference does the kimono make now, and it is too late anyhow—only this is how I always pictured Inez. Inez wearing a gardenia in her hair and Inez dressed in the blue-and-white silk kimono. And can’t you see how Inez was always tucking in those sleeves and how those sleeves were always flapping and getting into Inez’s way as she was chopping up the vegetables and as she was talking on the phone? I told Inez—I warned Inez over and over again—those sleeves could be a real liability for her.”

  I said, “But, Molly, you still haven’t said who found Inez. Did what’s-his-name Kevin find Inez?”

  Molly said, “The delivery boy. A young boy delivering something. Dry-cleaning. The door was wide open, he said.”

  I said, “Oh.”

  Molly said, “The delivery boy called the police. Nothing, the police said, was missing. As far as they could tell, the police said, everything was in place. Claude-Marie said the same thing. Claude-Marie said thank God. And Claude-Marie said the first thing he thought of was the drawing hanging in the front hall—the drawing of Christ being taken down from the cross that Inez said she found in a secondhand store in Toledo and that she said was a Rembrandt, but that the expert from Sotheby’s—or was he from Christie’s? I don’t remember—told Inez the drawing could be from the school of Rembrandt, but he didn’t think so.”

  I said, “Molly, believe me, if that drawing is a Rembrandt, I’ll eat it.”

  Molly said, “What? Oh, the Inca hats Price brought back from Peru, too. The hats Price said were valuable and Inez said were just dustcatchers. And the silverware. Nothing was missing. Oh, and all those appliances, remember? The appliances lined up right there on the butcher block counter where you couldn’t miss them—the Cuisinart, the espresso machine, the machine to make pasta. Oh, and remember how Inez used to complain that all the instructions were written in a foreign language and she could not understand them? The brand new stereo was right there, too. No one had touched the stereo. I told you, the stereo was still on, the stereo was playing.”

  I said, “Molly, I am sure the stereo belonged to Kevin.”

  Molly said, “Oh, WQXR. Lily, WQXR is the station Inez always listened to. Oh, and have I mentioned this? Have I told you this already, Lily? What Price told Claude-Marie the coroner said when he examined Inez? The coroner said he found drugs in Inez’s blood.”

  I said, “Drugs? Is that what you said, Molly? Oh, my God, Inez didn’t—hello? Molly?”

  Molly said, “No, no, Lily. I—Price did not think so either. Price mentioned this right away. This and the boots. Price said the boots were definitely not his boots. Claude-Marie said Price said that black cowboy boots would have been different. Price told Claude-Marie that he had had the black cowboy boots ever since he was a boy and sixteen years old and the boots still fit him. The boots, Price said, had a lot of meaning for him, and Claude-Marie said when he heard this, that he told Price that he knew just what Price meant. He, Claude-Marie, said he was French, and that he used to have a pair of shoes that he had bought at a store right off the Place de la Concorde right after the war, and, to him, Claude-Marie, the shoes were a kind of a symbol for him. A symbol, Claude-Marie said, that the war was over, although the shoes were actually made in Italy.”

  I said, “Oh—Italian shoes. Italian shoes fit me the best.”

  Molly said, “Only what I said to Claude-Marie was this, Lily. I said: Inez never took drugs in her life. No. Inez did not drink either. Sometimes, Inez drank a little wine—a glass of white wine. I told Claude-Marie: Inez would not even swallow an aspirin. The time Inez got the flu—the flu with the funny name that everyone got one winter. Claude-Marie got it, too. Claude-Marie got a high fever, and Claude-Marie said he ached all over, and Claude-Marie said he felt as if a bunch of wild horses had kicked him, and I was lucky. I was lucky I didn’t catch the flu from Claude-Marie that winter.”

  I said, “Oh, you mean the Asian flu? Is that what you mean, Molly? Leonard got really sick from it—a high fever, aching, aching all over, those were his symptoms.”

  Molly said, “Inez took only this homeopathic medicine—little white pills you let melt on your tongue that have no taste—that taste the same—and Kevin kept telling Inez it was all psychological.”

  I said, “Who? Kevin? Please, Molly, don’t talk to me any more about Kevin.”

  Molly said, “Lily, Kevin was all Inez ever talked about. Kevin this and Kevin that and how much, she, Inez liked him, how much she, Inez, loved him, how she, Inez, was in love with Kevin. I could never even get a word in edgewise, and Inez said how it was all right there in her astrological chart. And astrology, remember, was something else Inez always talked about. Inez said how by just looking at the position of the stars and the planets, she could tell. Inez could tell, she said, what would happen, and ninety-nine per cent of the time out of a hundred Inez said these things happened and she was right. All the stuff about the divorce and Price and about Kevin—Inez said she could have predicted this and that it was all right there in her chart.”

  I said, “Molly, I am a Libra, and Inez was—what was Inez? Inez was born in June. Price, remember, Molly, gave Inez the surprise birthday party.”

  Molly said, “Oh, yes, the party, and Price was the one who telephoned Claude-Marie last night. And Price, according to what Claude-Marie told me, would not go and identify Inez at the morgue. If he did, Lily—that was what Price said to Claude-Marie—this would be the way, he, Price, would remember Inez for the rest of his life. Price told Claude-Marie he did not want this. Price told Claude-Marie he wanted to remember Inez another way—alive, I guess. And Price’s new wife didn’t want Price to go either, and Price asked Claude-Marie. Claude-Marie had to go to the morgue. Claude-Marie had to drive to the morgue all the way from Connecticut, and too bad, too, it is raining, was what I said to him.”

  I said, “You’re right. You should see it now. It is pouring, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Because of the rain, Claude-Marie is not going to drive home again, Lily. Claude-Marie telephoned. Claude-Marie telephoned right after he had been to the morgue, and Claude-Marie said how Inez must have been there a while, and how they had to break her arm—Inez’s outstretched arm, the arm I was telling you about. Rigor mortis, Claude-Marie said, had set in.”

  I said, “Rigor mortis?”

  Molly said, “The boots, too. The galoshes. And you know what Price did? First thing, Claude-Marie said, Price did was to call the bar—the bar where Kevin worked part-time weekday nights. What’s the name of the bar, Lily? The Something Something Avenue Bar?”

  I said, “You mean the bar right across from—oh, and who was it who told me he went there once and who should be in there drinking a beer by herself but Faye Dunaway?”

  Molly said, “Who? Was Faye Dunaway the one in that movie where Jack Nicholson gets his nose sliced open with a razor blade? Did you see it, Lily? Ugh, it was awful. In the end, Faye Dunaway is slumped over the steering wheel and the horn—but what was I saying? Oh, yes, Claude-Marie. Claude-Marie said Price talked to a waitress named Diane, and Price said he talked to someone else too, at the bar. Both Diane and the other person, Claude-Marie said, told Price the same thing. The bar, too, was so noisy and crowded, Price told Claude-Marie, that he, Price, could not hear a thing.”

  I said, “You mean Chinatown, Molly. I saw the movie with Jim in San Francisco, which was a coincidence.”

  Molly said, “And did I tell you what else Price said? Claude-Marie said Price said he could tell by just looking at Kevin what kind of bartender Kevin was. I know what Price means, Lily. I could tell, too, by how Kevin lounged around all day on the couch—the same couch Inez wanted to throw out—and how Kevi
n wore nothing but a pair of old running shorts and Kevin did not run. No. Price ran. Price ran a marathon once, remember? Kevin used to just sit there and ask Inez to bring him his stuff—his cigarettes, his beer, her ass once. Poor Inez. And Inez said she was allergic to smoke, to cigarette smoke, and I remember the time Inez’s mother was smoking a—oh, have you met Inez’s mother, Lily? You met her at the birthday party, and Inez’s mother is not at all the way I pictured Inez’s mother to be or the way Inez was. No, no. Inez’s mother is blond, Inez’s mother is remarried, Inez’s mother chain smokes, and the time I am telling you about now, Lily, Inez kept getting up from where she was sitting and opening up the window, and this was in winter and this was after Price had left—after Price and Inez had separated already, but before Price had remarried yet—and Inez kept telling her mother how she was going to ruin and kill off the gardenia plants with her cigarette smoke and Inez’s mother kept telling Inez how Inez was going to kill her off with pneumonia if she did not sit down right this minute and shut the window. Hello?”

  I said, “Hello—yes. I am sure I met Inez’s mother at the birthday party, Molly. Inez’s mother lives in New Jersey, she said.”

  Molly said, “Yes, but one thing, though—the thing Inez and her mother had in common—they both liked to talk on the phone a lot. I’ll never forget this, Lily, and this was what Inez told me and, swear to God, this is true and what Inez said to me. Inez said, that when she, Inez, was little, her father had tried to call, call home from his office, and the phone was busy all morning. So, Inez’s father got into his car and he drove all the way back home—this was still in Wisconsin—and without a single word to Inez’s mother, who was still talking on the phone, Inez’s father yanked the phone, wire and all, right out of the wall. He left a big hole there, and he never once said a word to Inez’s mother, and what Inez said was that as long as she lived, she, Inez, would never forget the hole in the wall where the phone was.”

  I said, “Molly, a lot of men are like this. Sam, Molly. Sam would do this. He would, Molly. Sam, I swear, would do something just like this, Molly.”