If Jane and I ever felt buffeted on the whims of higher powers, it was that summer, and yet, we didn’t pity Odysseus. It was Polyphemus we felt sorry for, his home invaded, his flock and cheeses stolen. In my mind I saw him as I was sure he was meant to be: a monstrous but peaceful shepherd, no match for the wily Achaeans, who only got what they asked for when the blinded giant, crazed with pain from the stake they drove into his eye, ate them alive. Odysseus, it was clear to me, won his battles by guile and trickery, sneaking into Troy inside a wooden horse, creeping up on the unwitting brute Cyclops, sacking cities in the night and, as Jane grimly asserted, probably raping the women as well. Still, I couldn’t help but admire his panache, even as I despised him. I, too, saw myself as someone who had to connive to get her way, though in my heart, just as Calypso and Circe took on the shape of Isabelle, I dreamt that I was Nausicaa, pure, bright, and untouchable.
It was a magical month. Unencumbered by wives or mistresses, Ross devoted his full attention to us, strutting around like a peacock with his flock, supervising diving lessons for me and Jane and—late in the afternoon, when it got cooler—leading us in breakneck horseback rides up and down the mountain. In the evening we would all gather in the dining room. As men’s hungry eyes followed Lucy and Isabelle, I remember thinking that I was glad I was still a child, safe from these troubling glances to which clung, like a caul, the dirty aura of furtive desire. I found myself wishing that we could stay like this forever, suspended in time on this enchanted island, like Odysseus on Ogygia, professing to long for Penelope, but returning every night to make love to Calypso in her cave, for, like my father, Odysseus never could resist a beautiful woman.
There was a ballroom on the ground floor of the hotel, where, after dinner, a ten-piece band played late into the night. Mostly it was old swing standards, like “In the Mood” and “Chattanooga Choo Choo,” hilariously rendered in a Catalan accent by the short, plump, and suavely mellifluous Señor Emilio—who, like every other man in the room, was dying of love for Isabelle. Jane and I would lope happily along together, self-consciousness shed to the winds after the glass of wine we were allowed at dinner, as our sisters glided by like dragonflies in the arms of German men with pink, sweating foreheads. Every now and then Ross would appear and gamely take turns with all of us before retiring again to the casino, where he vanished like an avuncular genie in a cloud of cigar smoke. Strangely enough, there was no woman that summer, though many were interested, and I think now that this, too, was meant as a gift.
Before we left, Ross had taken us shopping in New York, letting us pick out two party dresses each. Even Jane, impressed by his sense of occasion, had caved in, selecting a pearly gray silk sheath that, I assured her, brought out the color of her eyes. I, in a moment of madness, had picked out a sugary pink folly of a dress, all bows and ruches and gossamer flounces, an outlandish and completely inappropriate creation that Lucy declared made me look like a wedding cake—which, as I realized the moment I tried it on again at home, it indeed did. Still, I was determined to wear it at least once, if only to prove that I didn’t care what she thought.
It wasn’t until our last night that I got up the nerve to put it on. After all the others had gone down, I slunk in through a side door, profoundly regretting the ice cream sundaes I’d been having every night for dessert. Cringing with shame, I crept along the wall, feeling like a monstrous bridesmaid, until Lucy caught sight of me and winced, and in that moment I lost all my nerve and just prayed for the earth to swallow me up. Which was when, to my dismay, the band struck up “The Blue Danube.” As the syrupy strains swelled in the overheated ballroom air, Ross appeared. Without missing a beat, he made straight for me across the parquet floor and, bowing, extended his hand and said solemnly, “May I have this dance?” And before I could protest, he swept me away, twirling me across the room so that my gauzy pink dress lifted and floated like the petals I had imagined, and as my sisters looked on and Ross inclined his head to tell me how beautiful I looked, I felt, for the first time in my life, like a princess.
CHAPTER forty-six
I’m not surprised when Odette announces the next morning that she’s going back to Paris. “Watch out where you sit,” she says to me, folding a pile of her neat little blouses and stacking them just so on the bed with a pat. She’ll have everything organized before it goes into the suitcase, T-shirts color-coded, tiny pastel bras stacked like egg cartons, sandals tucked away in felt bags. As she has often pointed out, being a stewardess is great training for life.
“He loved you,” I say.
She looks at me wryly, and we fall silent. “You can manage the rest,” she says, glancing at the urn with his ashes on the shelf.
It’s as if we had both acknowledged the bond between us, and agreed not to discuss it, and yet, I want her benediction.
“Tell me something,” I say.
She laughs, her eyes suddenly merry. “I will tell you something, Constance “—she pronounces it the French way—“sometimes you remind me of myself.”
Well, I’m tempted to say, we did share the same boyfriend.
“Let’s see, what wisdom can I pass on? Ah yes: Never tell the truth; no one wants to hear it.”
“That’s grim.”
“All right, then, never be ashamed. Le coeur a ses raisons, que la raison ne connaît pas.”
“The heart has its reasons.”
“Yes, and perhaps God watches over us.”
“And makes lists of all the bad things we do.”
“Isn’t that funny? I used to believe that too.”
“But now?”
“Now I think …” She clicks the suitcase shut. “Now I think life is complicated. Take Jim back,” she says, not looking at me. “He is a good man.”
“Yeah,” I snigger, “I bet he’s a way better lover now too.” I can’t help it, it just comes out.
She shakes her head. “Why do you Americans always have to spell everything out?”
“Wasn’t that one of the things you liked about Ross?’
She smiles, as if at a fond memory. “Whatever he may have done, you must remember, he knew how to make a woman feel cherished.”
“Is it that important?”
“I think you know the answer,” Odette says, turning back to her packing.
This is only the second or third time I’ve been in her room—not that I’ve felt unwelcome, she was just always more private than the rest of us. There’s none of Jim’s stuff around; maybe she gave him his own drawer, or told him to move out. On the dresser a few photographs stand in silver frames: Odette and Ross on honeymoon in Venice; on safari in Kenya; Ross alone in front of his airplane; and, to my surprise, one of all of us, at Isabelle’s graduation from Bennington, that I’m sure was taken by Daphne. As I’m standing there wondering why she picked that one—she wasn’t even in the picture yet—she says, “That was his favorite; he always kept it with him.” She hands it to me. “Here, take it.”
“No,” I say, “you don’t have to—” though I’ve already reached for it.
“I want you to have it,” she says with a sly smile.
“You already knew him, didn’t you?” I blurt out.
“What does it matter? It’s all in the past.”
A dull rumbling reverberates in the distance as a gust swells the net curtains, causing them to billow and flutter back into place like veils. During the night, a cool front dispersed the last traces of the sirocco. Apparently these weather swings are common in August—something to do with conflicting winds, atmospheric masses rushing at each other.
“Storm,” I say.
“Maybe,” Odette says. “Will you drive me to the airport?”
“Sure.”
“We should hurry if it’s going to rain.”
“It’s okay, I don’t mind.”
“Good.” She closes her suitcase and looks around the room, in a way that tells me she won’t be back.
“What are we going to do about the house?�
�� I ask.
“I expect we’ll have to sell it.”
“But he bought it for you,” I say. “It’s your home.”
She smiles. “Home is not a place, you know. It’s in here.” She points to her heart, and there’s something about that gesture that opens up a hole inside me.
“Please don’t leave,” I say.
She enfolds me, even though I’m twice as big as she is. “Sshhhh,” she whispers. “Everything will be fine,” and, as stupid as it sounds, I believe her.
CHAPTER forty-seven
“I can’t believe she just left,” Jim says miserably.
“She didn’t want to make a fuss.” I pat him on the shoulder. “Look, it wouldn’t have worked anyway. There’s no way you could have moved to Paris; you don’t even speak French.”
“I could have learned!” he protests, but I can tell by his eyes that he knows I’m right. Jiri comes in, bleary-eyed, unshaven, and exuding the odoriferous animal magnetism that keeps getting him in trouble with actresses.
“Hey, kids,” he says, thwacking Jim on the back.
“I thought you were going back to Prague,” I say.
He yawns and scratches his head. “Any coffee?”
“I’ll make it,” Jim says resignedly.
“What’s wrong with him?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Aha, heart troubles. Don’t worry, my boy,” Jiri says cheerfully. “There’s plenty more fish in the sea!”
“I’m supposed to believe this guy is a poet?” Jim says.
A fresh blast of rain pelts the window, causing it to rattle ominously. Sheets of water obscure the view of the ruin across the street. With the window shut, the kitchen feels close and steamy.
“Shit weather,” Jiri remarks. “We should all go back to bed.”
“Where’s Odette?” Isabelle asks groggily, entering the kitchen. She plops herself down in Jiri’s lap, where he proceeds to clasp his furry mitts around her breasts. “Hi, honey,” she coos.
Jim and I exchange sidelong glances. “She left,” I say.
“Oh,” Isabelle says, reaching for one of the biscottes Lucy buys under the conviction that they’re a staple of the authentic French breakfast. No one’s gone out for croissants because of the weather, and it didn’t occur to me to stop for some on the way back from Canonica. “Gosh, these are horrible,” she exclaims, putting it back down. “How come your hair is wet?”
“I drove her to the airport.” The storm hit on the way back, after Orzo, unleashing such a torrential downpour that I had to stop on the side of the road.
“Just like Odette to jump ship and leave us with all the mess,” Isabelle says peevishly. Her eyes wander to the greasy black smudge on the wall above the fireplace, its origin a mystery, though we think it might have something to do with the asbestos miners who used to board here. “This place is turning into a dump,” she observes.
“Odette thinks we should sell it,” I say.
“What do you mean?” Isabelle bleats. Even Jiri is aroused out of his postcoital bonhomie.
“You can’t sell Ross’s house!” he exclaims.
“We should have long ago,” I say. “We can’t afford it. It needs a new roof, for starters. Go up to the third floor if you don’t believe me; the rain is pouring right in.”
“Duh, what do you think got us out of bed?” Isabelle says with ill grace, intimating, I guess, that only a cold shower could have roused her from her erotic trance.
“And the stairs are falling down,” I continue, “and Mr. Peretti has put in a complaint about the toilet; he says the pipe is running directly into his garden, which is total bullshit, but anyway….”
“That’s the first I’ve ever heard of that,” Isabelle says.
“The mayor told Odette. Because the house is a historical landmark, we’d have to get a permit for renovations, and guess who’s going to make sure it’s never approved?”
“But the mayor loves us!”
“Right, the family of the man who brought organized crime to Borgolano.”
“That’s not fair!” my sister cries, so incensed that she jumps up from Jiri’s lap. “What about Yolande?”
“She’s been here longer,” I say. “Plus, she owns half the village and she’s paying to have the church restored. They can’t afford to get rid of her.”
“But the mayor was Dad’s friend!”
“Some friend,” Jim says.
“Golly, what’s gotten into you all of a sudden?” Isabelle’s hand flies to her mouth. “Oops, sorry….”
“Don’t mention it,” Jim says. “Coffee?”
“I’ll have some, thanks,” Marge barks from the doorway, striding in and grabbing the last chair. “Crap weather; someone should complain to management.”
“We need the rain,” Isabelle says, just to be contrary.
Marge picks a piece of dry skin off her sole and examines it. “The hell we do. Last thing I heard, people don’t come to the Med to get poured on. A bloody disgrace, is what it is.”
“Where’s Jane?” I ask.
“Sleeping in.”
Jiri grins. “Wore her out, eh?”
“Fuck off, you old goat,” Marge says amiably. “What’s with the long faces? Did I interrupt another family conclave?”
“Constance wants to sell the house,” Isabelle says accusingly.
“Great idea, place is a tip. Pick up a nice condo on the Costa Brava for the money; much nicer for the kids.”
“Well it may be a tip to you, but we think it has character,” Isabelle says.
Marge shrugs and stuffs a biscotte into her mouth. “Character! Bunch of yuppie artistes roughing it in digs your average Guatemalan peasant would consider too squalid for human habitation. Ugh, what is this, a diet biscuit?”
Jiri raises his fist in the air. “Comrade Marge! I was afraid you’d gone soft on us!”
“I shouldn’t think you’d care either way,” Marge retorts. “Don’t you have some kind of dacha on the Polish border?”
“To which I heartily invite you, my lesbian friend! Sadly, the peasants next door are no longer collectivized: They were recently purchased by a German agribusiness concern.”
“Is that so?” Marge says with interest.
“I’m sure she’d much rather go to Guatemala,” Isabelle snaps.
“We’re thinking of moving there, actually,” Marge says.
“What, with Jane?”
“No, with Nicole Kidman. Jane is very excited about it—it’s about time she stopped painting soft-core porn for the bourgeoisie.”
Jiri whistles the first bars of the Internationale, and, as we all roll our eyes, reaches for Isabelle and grabs her butt with both hands. “Look at this ass! Like bread dough!” he growls.
“Oh, honey, don’t be such a pig.”
“Thank God I’m a dyke,” Marge says.
I can’t entirely explain why Jim ends up in my room that night. Maybe it’s all the pheromones flying around the house. Or maybe we’re both just lonely. Odette has definitely taught him some new tricks; what I don’t expect is his remark to the effect that I, too, seem to have picked up some technique.
“What do you mean by that?” I say, piqued.
“Well, you know, you used to be kind of brusque.”
“It never seemed to bother you.”
“It didn’t,” he says, suppressing a grin. “I guess I’m only noticing now, in comparison.”
“I think people make a lot of unnecessary fuss about sex,” I say huffily.
“Well, you know, it kind of seemed to me, when we were together, that it was the only thing you were interested in.”
“Look,” I say, “that’s the way I am: businesslike and to the point.”
“You don’t have to get mad,” Jim says. “I still liked you.”
“Yeah, but you like me even better now that I got screwed by the neighbor, right?”
“Could I hold your hand?” Jim asks.
“Okay,” I sa
y, taken aback. I extend it across the mattress and he clasps it, our palms fitting moistly together. It seems a strangely intimate gesture.
“Is this what you did with Odette?” I ask.
“Look, there’s some stuff we’re not going to talk about, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. I peer out the window at the black sky, listening for the moan of the sea. I want to pull my hand away—even as a child I never liked to hold hands—but I leave it in his, sensing that if I don’t, I will have done something irrevocable, even as I’m beginning to realize that there’s nothing, really, that you can’t take back.
CHAPTER forty-eight
On the day of Ross’s memorial, the sun rises high and bright, flooding the water’s surface with the pellucid light that turns it the fake-looking turquoise featured so prominently on every postcard in Flore. Ross would have been pleased. He used to say, “I’m not a complicated guy,” and I never knew what he meant until now. The fact is, most people are a lot less interesting than we make them out to be, though every now and then they will surprise you.
As Jim and I set up the folding table on the patio, spreading it with a cloth as per Lucy’s instructions, Yolande waves to us from Philippe’s bedroom window, which, judging by the tape measure in her hand, she is fitting for curtains. She bought the house shortly after we gave her the money, which makes you wonder about this Mr. Woland in Antwerp—though, as she made haste to point out, Philippe gave her a very good price, adding, “so sad, these divorce cases,” with a little glance at me.
I have to say I find it pretty amusing to be cast in the role of the home-wrecker, even as I know perfectly well that Philippe’s wife dumping him, and demanding half their assets, had very little to do with me; I was just the last in a long string of tawdry seductions. Jim and I have booked our flights. We’re going to give Solomon Pierson Webb a try after all. Jim may grill a mean steak, but he’s no Alain Ducasse, and I can’t even finish Madame Bovary, let alone embark on a new career as an international woman of mystery. They must have worried we were getting cold feet though because Al Blacker, one of the managing directors, called us from New York to remind us how badly they wanted us and what a fun and exciting time we were going to have helping them build up their emerging-markets division. He kept repeating, “The sky’s the limit!” which I’d forgotten is the way people talk on Wall Street. They are particularly interested in Latin American markets. I don’t know much about them—it’s more Jim’s thing—but I did goofily point out that I know a woman who’s an expert on Guatemala. I’d forgotten that you can’t joke around with these guys: The next thing I knew, Al wanted me to fax him Marge’s CV. When I mentioned it to Marge, she hooted, then she asked me how much money it would involve. I gave her a rough idea.
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