Interviewing Matisse, or the Woman Who Died Standing Up

by Lily Tuck

  I said, “Molly, it is two o’clock. Two o’clock in the morning. There is not much we can do now, is there?”

  Molly said, “No, no, you are right, Lily, only I can’t stop thinking. Thinking about Kevin, and how by then, Inez said, she was desperate. The ad too, Inez said, was expensive and when the phone rang, Inez said, she nearly did not answer it. Inez said she had given up hope. Inez said she was at the end of her rope. I know. I put an ad in the paper once—the Old Saybrook Star—an ad for kittens. For three days, the ad cost me sixty-five dollars, and Claude-Marie said I was crazy. The ad too, Claude-Marie said, was too wordy, and I told Claude-Marie I was just trying to be accurate and to find good homes for the kittens. You know how I feel about kittens, Lily? How I feel about animals? Europeans—Claude-Marie, for instance—do not have the same sensibility. Take Suzanne, for example. Before Suzanne and Harry moved away to Santa Fe, Suzanne always took in strays. Suzanne, remember, Lily, lived next door to us, then the Thomases bought her house. Now, someone else has moved in there whom I haven’t met yet and who, Claude-Marie says, is the spitting image of Mercedes. Oh—you met Mercedes, didn’t you, Lily? Mercedes is Nora’s sister. Mercedes came to New York from Bogota or Bolivia, and the funny thing, come to think of it, was Nora also tried to call Inez. Nora tried to call Inez to rent the room for her sister. For Mercedes. Actually, it was me. I tried to call Inez that day—oh, that awful day. The day I shall never forget, Lily. And, of course, I was not home either when Claude-Marie, Ivan, and Nora got there. Claude-Marie said how they had to take a taxi, a taxi from the train station in Old Saybrook, and Claude-Marie said he thought the trouble was the car. Claude-Marie thought the car would not start. Claude-Marie had bought a new battery, and Claude-Marie thought this was the reason why I did not come to the station to fetch them. But it wasn’t the car, it was the cat. I told you how I stopped driving then. I refuse ever to drive again. And the reason is, Lily, each time I see a cat, the cat turns into a child. A child just like Bibi, even though Bibi is almost fourteen and Bibi is almost taller than I am now. Can you blame me? The other thing I keep thinking about is: Was it because I was in reverse? Have I told you this already, Lily? Have I told you how I was backing out of the driveway and how first I was on my way to the grocery store before picking up Claude-Marie—Claude-Marie, Nora and Ivan—at the station? The cat must have been lying under the car, and what still troubles me is my reaction. Instead of putting on the brakes, I pushed down harder on the accelerator. Oh, God, and what was it Ivan said? Ivan said this was a normal reaction while wouldn’t-you-know-it Claude-Marie never stopped talking about the car. There was nothing the matter with the car. Oh, yes, maybe, the fender, a little. Oh, you have met Ivan, haven’t you? Ivan and Nora. Ivan escaped from a gulag in Russia. I met Ivan at Yuri’s opening. Afterwards, we all went to this Vietnamese restaurant Claude-Marie said was the ‘in’ restaurant to go to. Inez was there, too. Inez sat next to Yuri, and this was when Yuri told everyone about his mother, about how his mother had known Chekhov, and Inez, I remember, said how she loved Chekhov.”

  I said, “Molly, have you forgotten? I told you, I was there. I was at the Vietnamese restaurant. I sat next to Malcolm, and Price was sitting at the other end of the table with what’s-her-name, his new wife, only they were not married yet.”

  Molly said, “Price. Yes, of course, Price. Price met Yuri the time Price came to Paris. As a matter of fact, Price and Yuri were both in the car with Claude-Marie, me, and Bibi—Bibi was in the car too, then—when the plane crashed. This was before I met Inez. I met Inez the same year my mother had to have surgery. The year I had to fly back from Paris on one day’s notice, I’ll never forget this, Inez—the first time I met her—was sunbathing on the roof. Inez was sunbathing nude. In July. I am certain about the month, Lily. The tar on the roof was melting in kind of silvery pools. I also remember how the World Trade Centers looked like two giant pieces of aluminum foil, and I remember how little rivulets of sweat were streaming down Inez’s naked belly and the sweat was full of little black soot specks. Mostly, I remember how I have never been so hot in my life. I am not kidding, Lily. God, it was hot. Also, I was jet-lagged. Hello?”

  I said, “Hello. Yes, I’m here. New York in July is terrible, Molly. July and August, Molly.”

  Molly said, “I flew over from Paris on one day’s notice. My mother, Lily, was in the hospital—the Martha Jefferson Hospital—oh, and the turbulence. I will never forget the turbulence on that flight, Lily. The plane bucked its way across the Atlantic Ocean and not once during the entire flight, not once during the seven-and-a-half hours, did they ever turn off the seat belt sign. Not once. I swear, Lily. They could not serve lunch or dinner or whatever the meal was. Midway somewhere, midway across the ocean, I suppose, the pilot apologized. The pilot promised us, the passengers, a coupon. A coupon for a free meal at the airport, a free cocktail too, he said. The pilot announced this over the intercom, and I may still have the coupon here somewhere—somewhere here in my desk. I told you, Lily, I keep everything. I may have kept the note I wrote then as well. I remember, I put the note in my pocket, next to my wallet and next to my passport—you know me, Lily, I hate to fly. I am afraid of people screaming and clutching at things, I am afraid of disorder and mayhem, afraid of disfigurement and dismemberment, and if I could, I would take a boat back. Really I would. A boat back to France. Like the first time. The first time, I took the Queen Mary. I was only eighteen then. I had never been anywhere except to New Orleans, and, oh, yes, I had been to Nag’s Head. Nag’s Head, North Carolina, was where I went to visit Amy—Amy, I told you, didn’t I, was my best friend? And Amy’s parents owned a house in Nag’s Head. I love the ocean and I love to swim, Lily. I swim here in Old Saybrook, only now it’s raining. It’s been raining all week and the water here is much colder than the water off the coast—oh, and I just thought of this—Inez—Inez did not know how to swim. Did you know this, Lily? When Price told me I could not believe this either. Everyone knows how to swim was what I said to him.”

  I said, “ Of course, I know how to swim. My mother taught me how to swim when I was little, but my father—my father, Molly, always said he had a healthy respect for the ocean.”

  Molly said, “And I asked Price: How come Inez did not know how to swim? How come Inez graduated from high school without passing the test? Inez, Price said, knew how to tread water and anyway, you did not have to pass the test to graduate from high school then. You only had to pass the test later and to graduate from college. Inez, Price said, only went to college after, while he himself, Price said, did not go to college ever. After Price was discharged from the Navy, he went to art school, he said. Just think, Lily—Price a sailor? Can you picture Price in those pants? And Price said he was stationed in Norfolk, and Norfolk, Lily, is not far from Nag’s Head. But I was already in France by then—I had already met Matisse by then. How old is Price Junior? Norfolk was where Inez said Price Junior was born. And what was it Inez said? With Price Junior, Inez said she was in labor for thirty-six hours and still she was not dilated enough. Oh, and on the roof and when Inez was sunbathing nude—and how I was just telling you, Lily—right away, I remember, I noticed the scar. The scar was unusually large—a jagged scar. Too bad, and in France, Lily—the south of France where I met Matisse and where I went swimming, Lily—I saw dozens of women in tiny little string bikinis with barely a pencil mark. Inez’s skin, maybe. Inez had very fine skin. Thin skin. The kind of skin you feel you can see through. Inez’s skin and Inez’s hair—don’t you agree, Lily?—were by far Inez’s best features. Inez was lucky, too. Inez hardly had any wrinkles, any wrinkles to speak of, or if you compared Inez, Lily, to someone say, like myself. I am just a few years older than Inez and I have plenty of wrinkles already—have you taken a look at my neck recently?”

  I said, “Inez was my age, Molly, only I was born in October. “

  Molly said, “Only if you looked closely, Lily, or if you looked at Inez in the bright light or outd
oors in the sunshine, then you could see these little blue veins on Inez’s forehead. A whole network of them. The same little blue veins showed up again under Inez’s eyes and on the sides of her chin. And those little veins—capillaries, I guess—made Inez seem fragile somehow. Those little veins too, made me think that Inez did not grow up in Wisconsin the way Inez said she had and that Inez grew up somewhere indoors—somewhere airless and crowded. And Inez was not exactly what I would call the athletic type. But Inez did surprise me. Inez surprised me the time we went riding. Have I told you, Lily? I told Nora. I told Nora how Inez rode this big horse. The horse, I swear, Lily, was over seventeen hands high, which just goes to show what I have always said: The bigger the horse, the gentler he is.”

  I said, “Just what I have always said too, Molly. Leonard is six feet two.”

  Molly said, “Small horses tend to be mean—like when I was a child in Virginia, in Crozet. I had a pony. A pony named Domino. Lily, I swear to you, every time I rode Domino, Domino tried to kill me. Every time too, I complained to my father about Domino—my father, Lily, was a great horseman. My father was Master of the Hounds of Albermarle County. In front of my father, of course, and wouldn’t you know it, Domino always acted like he was the best trained horse in the world—ears forward, eyes not rolling. And, of course, too, my father would not believe a word I said about Domino. But at night, I would lie awake in bed and I would try to think up ways of paying Domino back. For instance, I would go for days, Lily, three or four days, not cleaning out Domino’s stall. Let Domino stand in his own shit was what I would think. I am telling you, Lily, it got vicious between us. All animals, Lily—like children—are a huge responsibility, and just look at me, if ever we sell this house, this house in Connecticut, I will have to go back to France with the cat. And the cat, Lily, has a way of always disappearing just before we are meant to be leaving, to say nothing of having to fly all the way back to France with the cat clawing his way out of the bag on my lap. But when I said children, Lily, I was also talking about Bibi. Inez’s two boys are a lot older, although Inez, I remember, said: No matter, I never stop worrying. Inez said she worried about Price Junior all the way out there in San Francisco with the girl friend—Sara. Sara the dancer. Inez said she also worried about earthquakes, and what else did Inez say she worried about, Lily? Oh, now I remember—the convergence of planets. Everyone, Inez said to me, including the Indians, predicted the world would come to an end then, and Inez said how first she wanted to throw crystals into the Pacific, only Price would not let her. Price told Inez to take a ride on the Staten Island Ferry, to throw her crystals in there, into the Atlantic. It was a whole lot cheaper, was what Price said to Inez. The same weekend. The weekend I started to tell you about, Lily. The weekend Inez went riding after the argument—no, not the argument over the crystals, the argument over Jack Kennedy, over Jackie.”

  I said, “Jackie? Jackie Kennedy? Jackie Onassis, you mean.”

  Molly said, “Suzanne and Harry were there. So were Fred and Havier. Fred and Havier came after dinner. No, no, Lily, this was not a dinner party. You know me, I hate to cook. Claude-Marie cooks. In France, Claude-Marie does all the cooking. Claude-Marie does the shopping on his way home from the gallery. Claude-Marie likes to do this. Claude-Marie likes to talk to all the people, to all the shopkeepers, to the butcher, the baker, the woman with the goiter on rue Vaugirard who sells Claude-Marie fresh vegetables—well, frankly, I don’t think her vegetables are so fresh, but this is not something I am going to get into with you just now—Claude-Marie knows all their names. Claude-Marie knows how many children they all have, and this is the kind of thing I hate. I hate to make small talk. I have no small talk to make. I hate to talk forever about the weather.”

  I said, “I know what you mean—rain, rain, rain. Is it still raining in Connecticut? They say it is going to rain all week. This was what I am afraid of—afraid it will rain for Leslie’s wedding. Leslie’s wedding is on Friday, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Still, I said to Claude-Marie, I can’t stay cooped up all day in the house sorting through all these things. I have to go for a walk on the beach, Lily. I am a real beachcomber at heart—no telling what you can find sometimes. I found the shoe horn, didn’t I? I found the seagull. I found the seagull after a storm—a hurricane. The beach was full of debris washed up from the sea. What was the name of the hurricane? This was after they stopped being sexist and after they began naming hurricanes after men. Havier was with me. Havier was telling me about how grateful he was to AA and about how if he had not quit drinking, Fred—Carol. Lily, Carol was the name of that hurricane, and you should see Havier now, Lily. Havier is a changed person. You would never recognize Havier now, and Havier helped me put the seagull into the trunk of the car—the same car. The car we have now. I was still driving then. This was the year I stayed in Connecticut alone all winter to photocopy the seagull. Well, nearly alone. Tom was there. Lily? Lily—are you listening?”

  I said, “Yes, Tom—it’s getting late, Molly.”

  Molly said, “Tom was supposed to fix the roof—like Kevin. I mean Kevin could have fixed things. Kevin could have fixed the refrigerator that was always leaking, Kevin could have painted the front hall. God knows, there was plenty of fixing and painting that Kevin could have done, I said to Inez—only Tom, Tom—I have to admit—did not finish fixing the roof, Tom did not work out the way I had planned. And, Lily, I am the first to admit this. I admitted it to Claude-Marie, Lily. Some old busybody ran into Claude-Marie in the grocery store—the grocery store that stays open on Sundays—which is why frankly, I prefer France. In France, this kind of thing is not so important. In France, I am a foreigner, people leave me alone. People assume what I do is odd. Different—the photocopying is what I am talking about now, Lily. From the very beginning, Lily, when I was still photocopying clothes—remember? Clothes with double seams, clothes with hand-stitched button holes. Every time too, I had to go farther and farther by bus or by metro to other arrondissements from where I lived on rue Madame. I’ll never forget this—everywhere I went, everyone accused me of stripping the beads. Now, thank God, I have my own photocopier. The last time, come to think of it, I had any trouble photocopying something was photocopying Inez’s scarf. Poor Inez. I never heard the end of this. Yes—no—Lily, not the scarf in the restaurant with the bangles, the spangles. I have no idea where that ugly scarf came from. If I had to venture a guess, I would guess the scarf came from the secondhand clothing store in Soho where Malcolm bought the plaid cummerbund. Oh, and please, Lily, please, do not ask me why Malcolm bought the cummerbund if that is what you want to know. I have no idea. Not the foggiest notion. Maybe Malcolm bought the cummerbund to take to someone in Africa. Malcolm, don’t forget, is always talking about how Africa changed his art—or was it his life? No, his art, and Inez had one of Malcolm’s sculptures, a Masai, standing right there behind the couch, and Price told Inez—what was it Price said? Price said to Inez that if she swore never to sell it, sell the Masai, Inez could keep it, and Inez told Price that, of course, she would never sell Malcolm’s sculpture but that Price could not tell her what to do with it either. If she, Inez, wanted to sell the Masai, she bloody well could and she would too, which reminds me—did I tell you what Claude-Marie said about Price? Claude-Marie said when all this was finished that Price was going to go to Cincinnati for a show.”

  I said, “Cincinnati? Cincinnati is awful, Molly. Believe me, Sam and I spent a few months in Cincinnati and, aside from the zoo, there is nothing to do. Hello? Molly? Molly—it is nearly two-thirty in the morning.”