Interviewing Matisse, or the Woman Who Died Standing Up

by Lily Tuck

  I said, “I guess I’ve been lucky. I’ve never broken anything skiing. I’ve twisted things. I sprained my knee once. I wear a bandage for support, a knee brace when I ski.”

  Molly said, “The French-Canadian journalist had to go back in an ambulance. I never saw him again. I wrote to him in the hospital and he sent me a copy of the interview. The newspaper too, sent me a check for the picture I took. I know I have it here. Lily, I mean the interview. When I find it, I’ll read it to you. I cashed the check. I spent the money on the Leica—the Leica I sold to Yuri. The old Leica. The Leica without a built-in light meter. I told Yuri it had a better lens.”

  I said, “Molly, yes—but Patricia?”

  Molly said, “Patricia? Oh, yes, Inez. When I told Inez about my near-death experience skiing, Inez said: Oh, my, but this is a coincidence!”

  I said, “Inez did not know how to ski, Molly. Inez did not know how to swim either, and it’s three-thirty in the morning now, exactly, Molly. I told you how my watch is ten minutes fast.”

  Molly said, “I meant how the French-Canadian journalist broke his leg, and Inez said how this was like her father having the heart attack—the heart attack in the other woman’s arms—and remember, Lily, how Inez said she was away on the school camping trip? Inez said how it was after she and the kids in her eighth-grade class had hiked up all day to this lake and they were in bed in their sleeping bags, and Inez said how it was strange and no one was used to sleeping on the ground outside looking up at the stars. Everyone, Inez said, kept whispering. The teacher who had come with them had to keep telling them to pipe down and be quiet and finally, Inez said, everyone was. Everyone, Inez said, she guessed was tired from hiking to the lake and anyway, it must have been sometime later and she must have been asleep for a couple of hours because when she woke up, she noticed, Inez said, that none of the stars, the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper—the stars she was familiar with, the stars she had been looking at—were there. There was a whole set of new stars in the sky, and Inez also said how, at first, she just heard regular breathing, then she heard another noise, a noise she was not familiar with either. The noise, she said, she guessed was what woke her up. The noise, she said, frightened her, too. Inez said she thought of moose and of bear. She also thought of calling out to the teacher—the teacher whose name was Miss Hilary. Inez told me she would never forget her name—Miss Hilary. Miss Hilary, she said, was the math teacher. But eventually, Inez said, her eyes got accustomed to the dark and she figured out where the noise was coming from and what it was. Of course, Miss Hilary did not die. Miss Hilary and the kid did not have heart attacks either, only it was a sign. Inez said it was like if you see someone in the street and if, for a minute, you think that person is someone else—someone perhaps that you do not ordinarily think of—and even if you right away realize your mistake, chances are, Inez said, you are likely to run into this very person—the person the first person you saw made me think of—and this kind of thing, Inez said, happened to her a lot. The same thing was true of a word, a phrase, she said. Say, a word like palimpsest or a word like innumerate that you had never heard of before and that you didn’t even know what the word meant and all of a sudden you heard the same word all the time and all over the place. Everyone used it, and this was what Inez said she meant about Miss Hilary and the eighth grade kid in the sleeping bag. Inez said she had never heard anyone making love before and this was the coincidence she was talking about.”

  I said, “I know what innumerate means. It means someone who does not know anything about numbers. What does palimpsest mean?”

  Molly said, “Wait—something to do with stone carvings. Too bad, the French count would have known. Archaeology was his hobby and the French count spoke beautiful English. The French count liked to poke around old castles, old churches—oh, the French count was also a devout Catholic. As a matter of fact, you won’t believe this, Lily, the day I met him, a Sunday, the count stopped the car—the Lancia—first, he had to go to Mass he said, and how can I explain this? Kneeling next to him in church felt more intimate than going to bed with him.”

  I said, “Jim and I used to meditate. We sat on the floor cross-legged, but I could never really concentrate—concentrate on nothing. The whole time I would think of things like: Has Jim taken out the garbage yet? Why hasn’t Jim fixed the window? The window that sticks. Oh—he never did, Molly. I still can’t open the window.”

  Molly said, “Who was it? Was it Kevin? It was Kevin, Inez said, who tried to clear himself of traumatic childhood experiences by holding a soup can—Kevin is one of those scientologists, Lily. Kevin also told Inez that ideally you are supposed to go all the way back to the birth canal, but Kevin said he only got as far back as his circumcision. Malcolm, Price’s art teacher—at the out-of-body Institute he is always talking about—said he regressed much further. Malcolm said thank the Lord he was not circumcized and thank the Lord he got all the way back to Atlantis—you should have heard him. Each time Malcolm talks about Atlantis, he trots out his other moon theory for you—oh, I should call Malcolm in East Hampton—and the kimono, Lily. I should call Claude-Marie in the morning—the blue-and-white kimono and the gardenias.”

  I said, “The kimono—I told you, didn’t I, Molly, how I spilled sake on it? To make matters worse, Jim’s boss smoked and he burned a hole in it. You should have seen me, Molly. I was frantic. I told the dry-cleaner: Do the best you can, I don’t care what it costs me—oh, speaking of money, Molly, this phone call is costing you a small fortune, it is almost four o’clock in the morning. It is twenty to four in the morning.”

  Molly said, “And can you believe it—I am still sitting here at my desk sorting through things—sorting through bills? But Claude-Marie pays for the utilities. The phone bill and the electricity. Claude-Marie says it is business and long distance is cheaper after midnight. Anyway, I never go to bed before one or two in the morning. Claude-Marie snores, and, Lily, you should hear the cat. The cat purrs. Most nights, I move out. I try to sleep in the living room. The same thing happens when I go to the city and how many nights, I ask you, Lily, have I spent on Inez’s couch? I never sleep a wink or shut my eyes—oh, not because of the couch. The couch is perfectly comfortable. The noise outside—the traffic. The noise of the garbage trucks—oh, God. You should hear them—what I keep telling Claude-Marie: I have never seen so much garbage in my life. Bags and bags of garbage—even in front of the church. The church across the street in Old Saybrook, Lily, the Church of the Holy Redeemer, and I have told Claude-Marie: One day, I am going to go in there and ask someone. Yes, I am—just watch me, I said. I am going to ask the minister or the priest. I am going to say: Father, please tell me, what is inside all those bags? Unused prayer books? Uneaten wafers? But you should hear Claude-Marie on the subject. Not only does Claude-Marie accuse me of always exaggerating, Claude-Marie, Lily, accuses me of having a bag-lady mentality. You would be surprised, too, I have told Claude-Marie, at the number of things I have found, not to mention the seagull. The seagull does not count. Oh, the scarf. The scarf does not count either. I lost Inez’s scarf. The scarf Inez was knitting Price for Christmas a couple of years ago. Inez was learning how to knit, she said, and Inez also said how knitting should be easy—no different from plucking a chicken which was what Inez said she did as a girl in Wisconsin. What else did Inez say about those poor chickens? Oh, Inez said how she and Patricia used to sit outside in the yard, each with a dead chicken in her lap, and they would race each other and Inez said how she always won. This was, Inez said, before her father died, before they sold the farm—but what was I saying? Oh, yes, Inez kept dropping stitches in her knitting—the scarf, too, Lily, was all lopsided, the scarf was full of knots and I told Inez not to worry, I would get the scarf back to her in plenty of time before Christmas. After all, I said to Inez, this was only Labor Day Weekend. Labor Day Weekend, I am sure of this, Lily—Price and Inez were on their way up to pick up Matthew at a camp in New Hampshire.”

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sp; I said, “When I was a girl, Molly, I went to a camp in Maine.”

  Molly said, “I told Inez I must have left the scarf on the train. I told Inez I did not do this on purpose. I also told Inez the train was late and I was on my way to the hairdresser. I had an appointment for a haircut—me and my washed-out blond hair.”

  I said, “Molly, I’ve told you, you have wonderful hair.”

  Molly said, “I thought Inez would never forgive me. Inez said the scarf itself was not important to her. The scarf, Inez said, was only symbolic. Sometimes Inez, Lily, could be very rigid, and what I said to her was: Inez, are you sure you won’t change your mind and take one? Claude-Marie, I told Inez, liked the photocopies of the scarf better than those of the seagull. The photocopies of Inez’s scarf, Claude-Marie said, reminded him of Yuri’s paintings—the paintings of legless chairs—hello, Lily, are you listening?”

  I said, “Yuri? I hardly know Yuri, Molly. I met Yuri at the Vietnamese restaurant—oh, ha, ha, you can’t compare Yuri’s hair. Yuri’s hair is thick and coarse—you could mop a kitchen floor or tie a boat with it.”

  Molly said, “Lily, you misunderstood me. I was speaking of Inez’s scarf, but now since you mention it, Yuri’s hair reminds me of what Nora said the time Yuri came to New York for his opening, the time too, Nora said she got fed up—not just fed up with the lobsters—but fed up, Nora said, on her way to the kitchen to fix breakfast, when she had to walk through the living room, past the sofa bed Yuri was sleeping on—the same sofa bed, I told you already, Claude-Marie is sleeping on right this minute, the same sofa bed Nora’s sister, Mercedes, slept on—and each morning, Nora said she could see another and a different head of hair sticking out from the sofa bed covers. A blond head, a brown head, a black head of hair. One morning, Nora said she saw a pink head of hair. The same morning, Yuri was lying stark naked on top of the sofa bed covers, and this was the day Nora said she had enough, she was fed up, the day she yelled at Ivan: Those fucking Russians. Luckily, Ivan did not walk out. Luckily too, Ivan is from Tiflis. First, Ivan says, he is a Georgian, then a Russian second. Like me, Lily. I say I am a Virginian. So did my father. My mother too, and my mother, Lily, was not even born in Virginia, Lily. My mother was born in New Orleans.”

  I said, “Oh, New Orleans? I have some relatives from New Orleans. Maybe we are related, Molly. Wouldn’t this be amazing? Wouldn’t this be an incredible coincidence?”

  Molly said, “My mother’s family had a large house on St. Charles Avenue, and although I was little, I will never forget the house, Lily. The house was filled with bullets. Yes, bullets. Everywhere. In every room. My grandfather collected bullets. He had all kinds—bullets from all different countries, bullets from all different wars and guns. One bullet, Lily, I remember especially. The bullet had teeth marks on it. My grandfather used to say how this particular bullet was found near a Civil War field hospital. My grandfather said how the wounded soldiers chewed on this bullet—the soldiers who were being operated on or who were being amputated. You know—bite the bullet, Lily.”

  I said, “Oh—oh, yes.”

  Molly said, “I have always wondered whether this was a true story or whether this was just a story my grandfather had made up—whether my grandfather was pulling my leg. Also, my grandfather had this dog, Lily, a Lab.”

  I said, “Oh, Jason was a Lab, Molly. A golden Labrador retriever.”

  Molly said, “This dog—I cannot remember his name—was a black Labrador. My grandfather used to go duck hunting with him on Lake Pontchartrain, but what I was going to say about the bullet—”

  I said, “Oh, the dog chewed the bullet, Molly—your grandfather made up the whole story, Molly.”

  Molly said, “You know how children are—I really wanted to have this bullet. I wanted this bullet more than I ever wanted anything else in my whole life, in the whole world. Each time I went to visit my grandfather, I would beg him. I would badger him to give me the bullet. I even thought up ways of stealing the bullet from him, Lily, but then you know what happened? You know what happened to the bullet, Lily? The day my grandfather died, the dog ate the bullet. Yes, the black Lab. The very same day—how about this for a coincidence, Lily?”

  I said, “Amazing—but no, Jason had the softest mouth. Jason could pick up an egg in his mouth without cracking the shell. I swear this is true. One time, Jason picked up a whole family of newborn rabbits he had found in the bushes somewhere. Jason brought each baby rabbit one by one over to Sam and me—the rabbits were tiny, Molly, you should have seen their ears—and you know what the only trouble was, Molly? The only trouble was that each of these baby rabbits got drowned to death in Jason’s own saliva. Ironic, isn’t it? What did you say before? What did you say Claude-Marie always says? No good deed goes unpunished?”

  Molly said, “The dog, my grandfather’s dog, Lily, the black Lab, was fine. We even got the bullet back. But the funny thing was that now, with my grandfather gone, I no longer wanted this bullet. I had lost interest in the bullet completely—but, speaking of coincidences, Inez, I am sure, would have gotten a kick out of this story.”

  I said, “Yes, signs were what Inez was always talking about. Inez was going to do my chart. I am a Libra. I was born the same day Natalie Wood was—October eleventh. When is your birthday, Molly?”

  Molly said, “Oh, let’s not talk about birthdays. I told Inez: It’s useless. I don’t know what time I was born and the only thing my mother said she can remember is that it must have been at a quarter past something. I was born at home, and the whole time, my mother said, she could hear the grandfather clock in the hallway. The grandfather clock chimed every quarter of an hour and made her crazy. The clock, too, was always slow, Lily. The clock lost several minutes a day, and a man from Switzerland came up all the way from Richmond to try to fix it. I will never forget this either—perhaps you are right and I do attract perverts—the man exposed himself to me, Lily.”

  I said, “But did he fix the clock, Molly?”

  Molly said, “I don’t remember. I only remember his thing, which may be the reason why I am chronically late and why Claude-Marie says I have no sense of time—none at all. Claude-Marie may be right. Oh, and how long have we been talking on the phone, Lily? To me, it feels like just a few minutes. Inez had no sense of time either. Inez kept me waiting for half an hour outside the restaurant. I got soaking wet. My shoes, I told you already, Lily. Luckily, I did not catch pneumonia. Pneumonia is the last thing I need now that we have to sell this house in Connecticut, now that I have to pack up everything including the cat, and now that Claude-Marie says he wants to go back to France and I want Bibi to go to camp.”

  I said, “Camp? Did I tell you, Molly, that I went to a camp in Maine for three summers in a row? We slept in tents and I learned how to play tennis and how to capsize a canoe and get it right side up again.”

  Molly said, “Hello? I can’t hear you, Lily—Matthew told Inez he hated his camp in New Hampshire. Maybe I should send Bibi out West and to some place like Montana, away from Jerome and away from France.”

  I said, “Hello? I can’t hear you either, Molly. The time Jim and I drove out West, we drove through Utah and Nevada. I thought Utah would never end—those salt flats are endless and, wouldn’t you know it, we ran out of gas in the desert. I knew we would. I told Jim if only he would please listen—listen to me. Jim had to hitchhike a ride. He left me alone in the car. The nearest next town was forty miles. I’ll never forget this.”

  Molly said, “I had to hitchhike with Bibi once. The time I took Bibi to see the abandoned razor blade factory. After the count died, Lily, they tore it down. Bibi and I watched while this big steel ball knocked down the walls—mustard-colored cement walls—and you should have seen us, Bibi and I were covered in yellow dust, and on the way home, we took the wrong bus. We ended up lost in the Renault car factory and a workman drove us back in his Peugeot. I am trying to remember his name, Lily. Isn’t this silly? In the car, on the way back to the rue Madame,
we had a conversation. The workman said he was not really a Renault factory worker, he said he was an artist, and guess what I said? Blah, blah, blah, you must show Claude-Marie, my husband, your art. Of course, you know what Claude-Marie said to me afterwards, and Claude-Marie also said the paintings were dreadful. The paintings were all of smashed cars—oh, Charles. This was another one of these amazing coincidences. The workman’s name was Charles, and Charles, of course, was the name of the French count. I told you, didn’t I, how the French count was named after his father and the count’s father was named after his and so on and so forth? Personally, I have never liked the idea of naming children after their parents. Look at Price Junior, and when Bibi was born, I said to Claude-Marie it would be too confusing. I also said: Look at the Miss Marys, for instance.”