Going Topless

by Megan McAndrew

  “Maybe she’s trying to tell you something,” I suggest diplomatically. “I mean, Electra is kind of a heavy name for a kid.”

  “But it’s a lovely name! I would have loved to have been called Electra!”

  “Lucy,” I say, “most people don’t name their daughters after members of the House of Atreus.”

  “It’s because she can’t bear me, isn’t it?” Lucy says quietly. “Mind you, it’s hard to blame her; I don’t seem to be any good as a mother. Look at Isabelle: Her daughters adore her and she barely knows they exist. But she’s fun and silly, and I, well, I depress people.”

  “No you don’t,” I say loyally.

  “Yes I do. I depress my own husband—he told me so. He says I’m responsible for Electra’s problems, that I’ve bullied her into silence, and that I’m trying to starve her. And now he’s so angry about my having bought Yolande’s fishing cabin, even though it was with my own money, that he’s stopped speaking to me entirely.”

  I open my mouth to suggest that she tell Richard where to put it, but she stops me: “No, please listen, Constance; for some reason I feel you’re the only one I can talk to. Tell me the truth: Do you think he’s right?”

  I consider the question. “No,” I say. “I don’t think anyone has that much power over another person, even a child. Kids survive all sorts of abuse…. Most people probably shouldn’t be allowed to have them, but you’re not such a bad mother; you just get a little overwrought.”

  “Thank you, Constance,” Lucy says gravely. “I know you’re being kind, but thank you.”

  From where we’re standing by the kitchen door, we can hear Jiri and Jim talking in the living room. Suddenly Jiri raises his voice, which he tends to do when he’s getting enthusiastic.

  “No, no, my friend, communism wasn’t all bad; in some ways it was like being a student forever: We got to live in shabby flats and drink too much and fornicate with delightfully loose girls—contrary to popular opinion, the socialist state did not breed virtue; quite the opposite, in fact—and occasionally, pour le moral, stage a little demonstration. Every now and then, one of you nice Westerners would drop in and drink vodka with us all night and then go home besotted with the depths of the Slavic soul. Believe me, now that we’ve become just another nation of shopkeepers, you won’t find us so romantic.”

  “Uh, but what about political repression?”

  “Jim, my friend! Let me tell you a secret: I was never so popular with women as when I was being persecuted by the authorities.”

  “I don’t know, it seems like a hell of a way to get a date.”

  “Ah, but you see, it’s all in the context—excuse me,” Jiri says, reaching for the phone, which has just started to ring. “YES?” he bellows into the receiver. His expression changes to a delighted smile. “Isabelle! When are you coming home?!”

  “You know what I find most amazing about Jiri?” I remark to Lucy. “The total freedom from self doubt. Do you think it’s part of the artistic persona?”

  “Hardly,” Lucy says. “Look at Jane.”

  “Listen, koteczko,” I hear Jiri say, “you come back and I do anything you want, okay?” Catching sight of us in the doorway, Jiri motions me over and, clamping his hand over the receiver, announces cheerfully, “She is still angry,” before handing me the phone.

  “What is he doing there?” Isabelle hisses.

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “This is really too much! After everything he’s put me through …”

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  She takes a deep breath and pauses a second. “There are two million dollars in the account.”

  I stare out the window at a boat on the horizon—the car ferry to Livorno, probably. Jim and I were supposed to be taking it back, spending a couple days in Florence before we went home. I guess that’s not in the cards anymore. “What?” I say.

  “You heard me. Mr. Samsa was very surprised to see me, by the way: He didn’t even know Dad had died. You’d think someone might have told them.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t in his best interest to find out.”

  “Anyway,” she says impatiently, “it doesn’t matter. I can’t do anything without your signature, so you need to come to Zurich: There are fees and things that I need you to help me sort out.”

  “I’m not going anywhere. You come back here and we’ll decide what to do. This doesn’t just involve you and me.”

  “I thought we’d already discussed this!” Isabelle says angrily.

  “Yes, and I haven’t changed my position.”

  “Well, I won’t budge,” she declares, though I can hear in her voice that she knows she’s stuck.

  “Okay, then I’ll send Jane.”

  “You wouldn’t!”

  “Watch me.”

  Another pause as she reviews her nonexistent options. “Oh, all right, all right! I want you to promise me one thing, though.”

  “What?” I say, knowing what she’s going to ask.

  “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say, before putting down the phone.

  CHAPTER thirty-two

  As soon as I’ve hung up the phone, I convene a meeting in the kitchen.

  “About two million dollars,” I repeat.

  “Are you sure?” Lucy says.

  “Well, she’s bringing the documents with her. Even Isabelle can read a bank statement.” I glance over at Odette, who is wiping down the cutting board with an inscrutable expression. She’s closed the shutters against the sun, but it seeps in between the uneven slats, throwing long stripes across the walls.

  “How extraordinary,” Lucy says. “I was convinced she’d come back empty-handed.”

  “Before we get all excited,” I say, “can I just point out that it’s not really that much money?”

  Marge snorts. “I can assure you, Constance, that in most people’s eyes, two million dollars is quite a lot of money indeed.”

  “Constance has a point,” Lucy says. “Divided by five, it doesn’t amount to much.”

  “I must say, this is awfully amusing, the nonchalance with which you toss about sums that would sustain an entire third-world village for decades,” Marge says.

  “I believe this is a family matter,” Lucy says.

  “Lucy!”

  Lucy turns to Jane. “I’m sorry, but it’s really none of her business.”

  “Thank you very much,” Marge says huffily. “I know when I’m not wanted.” She stumps out. I’ve never seen Jane so angry. She plants herself in front of Lucy, her chin shaking.

  “How could you say that?”

  Lucy is unrepentant. “She hasn’t been here for years! What makes her think she can just walk in and tell us what to do?”

  “Oh, really?” Jane cries. “Shall I tell you why Marge hasn’t been here for years? Because you’ve never made her welcome—none of you!”

  “Oh là …”

  Jane swings around. “Don’t you Oh là me, Odette—I know perfectly well what you think of us!”

  Odette makes that little French shrug. “Do not flatter yourself, my dear.”

  “I’m not your bloody dear! You have made it clear from the moment Marge, my lover, stepped into this house that you consider us an embarrassing blemish on the family, something to be hushed up before the neighbors—”

  “We are all civilized people. It is your business what you do in your bedroom.”

  “I can’t believe this!” hoots Marge, who must have been hanging around in the hallway listening. “What is this, the fucking Proust-appreciation society?”

  “Please do not use such language around me.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. What’s the matter, Odette, you find the word fuck shocking? I’m surprised that you of all people would have such delicate sensibilities,” Marge says sarcastically.

  “It is not such a bad thing to maintain appearances; perhaps you will learn this someday,” Odette says.

  “Ha,
appearances!” Marge barks. “Women like you simply amaze me, Odette: You spend your entire life on your back and you worry about appearances!”

  “This is enough, I think.”

  I decide it’s time to intervene. “Look, Marge,” I say. “No one invited you—”

  “I invited her!” Jane cries furiously, and I notice with dismay that she has tears in her eyes. “And she has as much of a right to be here as that boy toy of yours, Constance, the one you seem to be sharing with half the household, or that self-satisfied prick Richard, or that buffoon Jiri—”

  “Hallo,” Jiri says, coming into the kitchen with a shopping bag full of wine bottles. “Did someone call me?”

  “You all make me sick!” Jane shouts before being led out by Marge. Jiri takes in the scene with a raised eyebrow. “Have I interrupted a family gathering?”

  “I thought you were at the beach,” I say.

  “The sun was too hot, and the girls all had mustaches. I went to the café, where I had a most informative talk with the patron about his theories regarding the explosion: He blames foreigners, in particular this Fatulescu woman who has taken up residence in that castle up the hill. He thinks she’s an Arab.”

  “Oh!” Lucy exclaims, slapping herself on the forehead. “The cocktail party—it’s tomorrow!”

  “Cocktail party?”

  “I completely forgot: Yolande stopped by to tell us; it’s tomorrow at six.”

  “Isn’t she going to send out engraved invitations?” I ask.

  “It does seem rather odd, doesn’t it?” Lucy says.

  “The Romanian nobility is known for its oddities,” Jiri says. “Think of Count Dracula.”

  “Well,” Lucy says, “I for one am ready for a bit of diversion. I hope she’s terribly grand and eccentric.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that,” Jiri says. “Does anyone want an apéritif?”

  CHAPTER thirty-three

  The following day, Isabelle calls and tells me not to bother picking her up from the airport, she’ll take a taxi. She doesn’t mention Jiri. Jane and Marge have vanished, as has Richard, though he’s probably just up at the bar, drowning his bile. Lucy decides to drive to the flea market in Canonica, and Yves offers to go along. She asks me before they leave if I’ve decided what I’m going to wear to the countess’s party, then she glances at our neighbor’s house and gives me a knowing look. “You’re being awfully naughty, aren’t you?”

  “I’m hardly the only one who’s being naughty around here,” I retort, which for some reason causes her to turn pink, but she quickly grows serious again.

  “I’ve decided to call Electra Agnes if she wants,” she says. “What do you think?”

  “You might as well try it,” I say. For all the fuss, Electra hasn’t exactly been running off at the mouth lately. Maybe she’s just being obstinate.

  “Though why she had to pick such a dreadful name … Perhaps she’ll change her mind if we indulge her,” Lucy says hopefully.

  “It could have been a lot worse,” I say. “She could have picked Barbie or Maude.”

  “What’s wrong with Maude?”

  “Forget it,” I say.

  Odette has been avoiding me. When I told Philippe about it, he laughed. “It’s not shame, you know. You must try to view her through the prism of her ego: More than anything, she is terrified of appearing ridiculous.”

  “Well,” I say, “I don’t see any reason for her to feel guilty.”

  “My dear, you are intoxicating in your obtuseness.”

  “Oh, stop it,” I say, though no one has ever called me intoxicating.

  “You realize, of course, that she knows all about us.”

  “I really don’t care who knows.”

  “Even your sister?”

  “Well—”

  But when Isabelle finally shows up, she has other fish to fry. She sweeps past me and marches straight up to Jiri, who has come out with the girls to greet her.

  “What are you doing here? Did your bimbo throw you out?”

  “Isabelle! Les enfants …”

  “No, Odette, it’s about time they learned the truth about their father!”

  “Why, Mommy?” Sophie bleats. “What did Daddy do?”

  “Nothing, sweetheart.” Isabelle rustles through her bag and pulls out a gift-wrapped box and a giant bar of Toblerone. “Here, Mommy has brought you a present. Why don’t you go inside and open it?”

  “We want to stay here with Daddy.”

  “I said, go inside.”

  “No,” Sophie says stubbornly. I’m afraid for a second that Isabelle’s going to hit her, but she can’t with all of us watching. “See what you’ve done,” she hisses at Jiri instead, picking up her bag and stalking into the house. Jiri makes a helpless little shrug at me. I guess he really thought he was going to get away with it again. Strangely enough, I find myself feeling sorry for him; after all, it’s not as if Isabelle had never cheated on him. It all seems so pointless all of a sudden.

  I follow her upstairs and reach her room just in time for her to find Jiri’s bag on the floor. “There was nowhere else to put him,” I say.

  “What about out on the street?”

  “Look, I really don’t want to get involved, but maybe you should give him another chance. He drove all the way from Prague—”

  “Oh, please,” Isabelle says disdainfully. “I can’t believe you’ve been taken in by his act.”

  “I kind of got the impression before you left that you wouldn’t mind getting back together.”

  “Well, things have changed,” Isabelle says, fluffing out her hair in front of the mirror and making a show of inspecting her nails, which are freshly manicured and bloodred. She didn’t used to go in for that kind of thing.

  “You mean you no longer have two kids and no professional skills?”

  “Excuse me,” she says, affecting an air of puzzled incomprehension, “are you saying that I should go back to Jiri because I can’t support myself?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Right, because I’d have to be mad to give up the life of decadent luxury that he’s accustomed me to.”

  “Jiri hasn’t done so badly for a poet,” I say. “It’s not like you’ve ever had to work.”

  “Oh yes, that’s always the bottom line for you, isn’t it? Just because you have a dull boring job, everyone else has to suffer too.”

  “My job’s not so bad,” I say.

  Isabelle whirls around, her eyes shining like a pirate’s. “Yes, that’s exactly it, it’s not bad —but you can’t stand the thought that someone like me would have a fabulous, wonderful, interesting life that doesn’t involve going to a stupid office every day, can you? You know, Dad told me once that you have no imagination—” As soon as it’s out, her face crumples. “Oh, Constance, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!” She opens her arms the way she does to Sophie and Olga when she’s forgotten to make dinner, or showed up an hour late for the school play.

  “I have all the imagination I want,” I say.

  But already her eyes have grown huge and drowned and her hands have flown to her chest—where, unfortunately, her breasts get in the way. “Oh God, I can’t believe I said that. Dad thought the world of you!”

  “Well,” I say, suddenly exasperated, “he thought the world of Jiri, too, so maybe, in his honor, you should give the guy a break or at least be civil to him until the memorial.”

  “Why can’t we just have this memorial and get it over with!” Isabelle cries. “It’s so morbid, all this sitting around waiting!”

  “I thought the whole idea was to get together for a family vacation and then cap it off by celebrating the reason we’re all here. Why would Ross deprive himself of one last chance to manipulate us?”

  Her eyes narrow again. “You can’t stand that I was his favorite, can you?”

  “No,” I say, “what I can’t stand is having to pretend all the time that you’re my favorite too.”

  CH
APTER thirty-four

  By six o’clock everybody’s ready for a diversion except for Lucy, who bought a chest at the flea market and is still on an antiquing high. Isabelle seems to have decided to grin and bear it. Alternating between sulking and sliding me molten glances laden with self-pity, she gets the girls all dressed up and, in an access of generosity, even curls Electra/Agnes’s hair. We still haven’t talked about the money.

  To my surprise, Jane and Marge decide to come. Having been gone all day, they showed up flushed and disheveled with twigs in their hair, claiming to have been on a nature hike in the maquis, though anybody could tell they’d just emerged from a gigantic roll in the hay. Maybe Philippe is right and Jane just needs to get laid like the rest of us. Whatever their differences were, they seem to have worked them out. Jane is positively starry-eyed. She’s wearing a flower-print hippie dress that really does make her look like a Madonna, and Marge, in a major concession to the occasion, has slicked back her hair and put on a clean shirt. When Jiri asked her if she wanted to borrow a tie, she called him a prick, but it sounded almost affectionate. I’ve always suspected that in her heart of hearts she admires him.

  At first I think Isabelle is going to behave herself and go with. Jiri and the girls in the Skoda, but when she spots Philippe coming out of his house, she runs over to ask him for a ride, in a voice so nakedly suggestive that he winks at me before opening the door for her with a little bow. Jiri is not so amused. “Who’s that?” he growls as I get into the passenger seat. I’d sort of hoped to travel with Philippe, but it doesn’t seem worth the bother now. Jane and Marge squeeze in the back.

  “Philippe Kahn,” I say. “You met him at the explosion. He bought the Costas’ house.”

  “He looks like a hairdresser,” Jiri says.

  “Actually, he’s a writer.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Borgolano’s turning into a regular intellectual colony,” Marge says from the backseat. “Isn’t this countess some kind of poet as well?”