One night, sitting alone in her pink poems room, she realized that the rash had perhaps not so much to do with all the sharp edges of her objects as with the nonstop irritating sound of Mr. TV’s TV. She decided that if only she could find a way to have him watch his TV in silence (so that the endless repetitive commercial syllables—Buy this! Buy that! Make this white! Make that clean! Make that pain go away!—would no longer assault her ears and cause her to attack her hands), perhaps then she would have a chance to read her poems books in peace.
Since she knew that objects could often provide a solution, she decided to find an object with which she could silence Mr. TV’s TV.
CHAPTER 7
Monsieur Sorbonne and His Wife
Because his wealthy aunt and uncle adopted him, Monsieur Sorbonne had never learned to work. He was given, instead, to curiosity, to endlessly observing things—objects, architecture, weather, tools, and machines—and learning what made them go fast or slow, why they were the colors they were, the way they behaved in combination with other objects and items, the consequences they had, the questions they raised, the answers they could give. Monsieur Sorbonne loved learning. The stuff of life was his school, and he was its finest pupil.
When Monsieur Sorbonne arrived at that sorry state of adulthood in which most people give up their curiosity and go to work, he realized he had a serious problem. Work in itself could not be interesting, he thought. Work was just work. Unlike learning, it held no fascination for him.
When it became clear to him that he had no inclination to work, he decided to solve his problem in some other fashion. If you don’t know how to work yourself, perhaps you could learn by example, he thought. As a thing to be learned, work held an odd sort of interest for him. Or if you can’t work yourself, he further considered, perhaps you could marry someone who can. This was a viable theory in general, of course, and in particular, it held promise because Monsieur Sorbonne was quite handsome.
Having thus set aside his problem for the moment, Monsieur Sorbonne decided to continue his life as a student of all things. One day, while he was out having new business cards printed—
MONSIEUR SORBONNE
Considerer of All Things
—he made the acquaintance of a Miss Gutz.
Miss Gutz worked in a print shop where, daily, wearing an unspectacular oilcloth apron, she aligned the type and inked the press. She was not particularly pretty but she had, as Monsieur Sorbonne observed, considerable fortitude, a fortitude which for quite a few years now, had enabled her to be gainfully employed.
Since she, apparently, knew how to work, he started talking to her, and it became apparent before too long that they had a number of things in common—an interest in typefaces, for one. (Monsieur Sorbonne preferred above all the Egyptian Extended, while Miss Gutz, quite more conservative by nature, preferred Palatino and Times Roman.) In order to continue their conversation—Monsieur Sorbonne thought he might learn even more about the various inks, fonts, and colophons—he invited Miss Gutz to a fishstick lunch. This was not to his ordinary taste, but as Miss Gutz had a mere half-hour for her noonday repast, she removed her inky apron and suggested they mosey across the street to the Fishstick Restaurant.
It was there that Monsieur Sorbonne disclosed to her one of his lifelong dreams, which was to sail around the world in a boat. “It would be wonderful,” he said, “to learn about the sea from being in its midst.” Miss Gutz allowed as to how she also, from time to time, had had a similar dream. She had quite a sum of money in her savings account from having worked so diligently hard and for so long, and offered, with it, to supply him with a boat if, just for the ride, she might come along.
Although this was enticing, it seemed somehow inappropriate to Monsieur Sorbonne, who, although he had been endlessly supported by his uncle and his aunt, had never been supported by a woman. He was indeed obsessively curious, but he was not an opportunist, and so in exchange for the boat she would provide, he offered gamely to marry her.
They were married later that day, when, after removing her inky print apron and asking permission from her boss, she got off early. Within weeks she liquidated her funds and he purchased the boat, which he furnished according to his unusually excellent taste. Then with almost no further ado, they set out to sea.
Unfortunately, once at sea, Monsieur Sorbonne was once again bored. He wasn’t learning one-tenth as much as he’d hoped—about waves, fish, work, the night configuration of the stars, or even cooking at sea. And Miss Gutz—she never did take his name (fortitude, in her opinion, was worthy, while learning was mere frivolousness)—while sublimely proficient at manning the sails, was not, as it turned out, such very interesting company.
When they had finished their longish discourse on printing—inks, typefaces, colophons, and paper cuts—Miss Gutz had really little else to say. She exercised her muscle at the mast, while Monsieur Sorbonne, below deck, read again and again the few books on astronomy that he had brought along. It was thus that, not so happily, they passed two years.
CHAPTER 8
Mademoiselle Objet Stumbles Upon Monsieur Sorbonne
Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet met at the International Exposition of All Objects, which was being held, uncharacteristically, in their city, on this particular year. Monsieur Sorbonne was attending the Exposition because having at sea discovered the intellectual limits of the fortitudinous Miss Gutz, he now, more than ever, wanted to learn some new things.
Mademoiselle Objet was there in search of a pair of glamorous earmuffs to block out the sound of Mr. TV’s TV. These, it turned out, were not available. No one, it seemed, had thought of such a thing.
Mademoiselle Objet was pondering the foolishness of this—why it was that, given the millions and millions of TVs which could not be not-heard by the millions and millions of spouses of persons like Mr. TV, no one had yet invented an object that could block out this sound and still be attractive—when she encountered Monsieur Sorbonne.
Monsieur Sorbonne was studying an instrument that was capable of measuring the underwater mean circumference of stalagmites and stalactites, and had, on a whim, considered buying it. To be sure, it was of no immediate use, but his life had been so boring the last two years that it occurred to him that one day, if not soon, he might want to take up spelunking. And in that case, he might need just such an instrument.
Mademoiselle Objet, frustrated, was, if the truth be told, on the verge of hysteria because of being unable to locate the TV earmuffs she had so desperately had in mind. Her relationship with Mr. TV, she was beginning to think, was about to “go down the tubes” (as they were accustomed to saying in her neighborhood). She had started to feel that, even from another room, she could hardly bear to listen to one more unmuffled hour of TV. It was thus that, heartbroken and emotionally frayed, she bumped into Monsieur Sorbonne. She was about to depart the Exposition when, in her haste, she swerved precipitously around a corner, disrupting Monsieur Sorbonne’s hold on the stalagmite instrument and causing it to ricochet off the display table and clatter onto the floor.
This was the absolute last straw, she thought, the fact that she had come to the International Exposition of All Objects and no one in the entire world had invented the single object which could save her life, or, to be more specific, her sanity. Now, bereft of all hope, she had bumped into a total stranger, causing a pathological and public disarrangement of objects, a spectacle of disorganization. She was overwhelmed. She burst into tears.
Monsieur Sorbonne was thus awakened from his reverie. He removed the red silk handkerchief from the inside pocket of his dark blue blazer and very tenderly wiped her cheeks. “There, there,” he said kindly. He was pleased, in fact, in an odd sort of way, to have come across such a brittle, collapsible woman. Her obvious fragility was, he noted to himself, somewhat refreshing, standing as it did in marked contrast to the fortitude of the sturdy Miss Gutz. Besides, she had lovely green eyes, which reminded him of the sea. And her tears
left perfect circles on his red silk handkerchief.
He wrapped his arm around her and without so much as a fare-thee-well to the stunned stalagmite-measurer vendors, he whisked her out of the Exposition Hall and into a tearoom down the street.
CHAPTER 9
Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet Have a Tête-à-Tête
Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet sat in the tearoom staring at one another and at everything. Mademoiselle Objet was staring at all the objects—the beveled gilded mirrors with their planes and curlicues, the spoons, the napkins twisted in knots on the tables, the rows of oysters bedded in ice, the pyramids of fruit, the beautiful menus (Palatino Light, Monsieur Sorbonne observed to himself, thinking momentarily, and fondly, of Miss Gutz), the tufted leather seats, the lilting chandeliers.
For once, thought Mademoiselle Objet, everything is perfect. I don’t need to rearrange a thing. Everything is exactly where it belongs. She heaved a soft little sigh and settled back into her tufted leather seat.
Monsieur Sorbonne was looking at her—at her lovely green eyes, which had taken in all the objects in the room; at her hair, which was long and shiny and clean and shimmered like a wave in the drifting light of the sparkling chandelier; at her hands, which were pale and white, their little nails polished like tiny pink shells from the sea. She was breathtaking! Except for wanting to know her, she had dispelled him of all curiosity.
Monsieur Sorbonne then ordered a bottle of very expensive wine. Having come back from the sea, he was given again to the practice of his wealthy expensive tastes. Mademoiselle Objet was impressed. She liked the looks of the bottle, the way it stood, like an obelisk, between their two glasses on the table. She lifted her glass and he clinked it. For a moment she felt like she was falling in love.
She ordered a salad with shallots and mushrooms, and a grilled breast of chicken. He ordered a salad with crayfish (he liked their orangey color, the little jet beads of their eyes), a tureen of dried eggplant soup, and a large plate of lamb. Mademoiselle Objet, who had quelled an anxious pang at the arrival of the crayfish, was feeling quite soft and intrigued. A man who eats crayfish with eyes couldn’t possibly watch a TV, she opined.
It was late in the day. They had finished their dinner. Monsieur Sorbonne and Mademoiselle Objet, without saying a word, walked slowly down the avenue and when, shortly, they came to a small hotel, without hesitation, they walked in.
Because she had aroused his curiosity, he wanted now to know her as a person. Because he had brought her to a restaurant—and now a hotel—where there was no TV and everything was perfectly arranged, she followed him up to the room. She adjusted the ashtrays on the table. Monsieur Sorbonne pulled back the sheets on the bed which, immediately, she rearranged in a perfect triangle, and then, very inquisitively, he made love to her.
CHAPTER 10
When Mademoiselle Objet Got Home
When Mademoiselle Objet got home it was well after midnight. Mr. TV was asleep in front of the TV. He had dusted and washed half the dishes. Her dishes, awaiting her dinner of boiled potatoes and fried ground meat (which she promptly flushed down the toilet) were still set out on a placemat on the table. She quietly washed them and put them away, and then she awakened Mr. TV.
“Come to bed now,”—or some such thing, she said.
“Did you just get home?”—or some such thing, he said.
She told him that, no, she had been home for hours, that earlier she had been gone. Had he forgotten, she had gone out to the Objects Exposition? She had come home early. He had been sleeping already, in front of the TV. She had been sitting for hours in her room, arranging her objects and reading her poems.
Mr. TV nodded, and, in a sleepwalking daze, made his way to the bedroom. It’s bad luck to use truth for a lie, said Mademoiselle Objet to herself. Then putting all her pencils in line, she followed him into the bedroom and turned out the light.
CHAPTER 11
When Monsieur Sorbonne Got Home
When Monsieur Sorbonne got home, his life was out in the street. His telescope, his stuffed parakeet (he had forgotten all about that!), his hockey shoes, his hang-gliding wings, his drafting tools, his maps, his clothes, his books on flying and sailing and astronomy, his Dopp kit with its pig-bristle shaving brush (the only possession he owned which had once belonged to his real father)—had all been crammed in a pair of plastic garbage bags with twistee-lockems twisted tight around their necks.
Surprised, but not entirely alarmed, Monsieur Sorbonne approached the front door. “It’s all over, you fool,” said Miss Gutz in her sturdy but unpoetic way and slammed the door in his face.
CHAPTER 12
Monsieur Sorbonne After His Wife
Monsieur Sorbonne picked up his things and put them into his car. He had an Oblong Purple Credit Card—a gift from his wealthy uncle and aunt, which gave him access to special funds.
He dialed up the bank with his card and withdrew $200,000 on the special after-hours bank account.
He took all his objects out of the two despicable green plastic bags and arranged them very lovingly on a blanket in the back seat of his car. (These were the things, after all, that had whetted his mind and assuaged his curiosity. They were his school! His friends!)
He drove downtown, and with the memory of the curiously anxious Mademoiselle Objet still fastened in his mind, went back to the hotel and asked for the room they had just occupied.
He opened the door to find the ashtrays and curtains all still pleasingly arranged as Mademoiselle Objet had arranged them. But alas, the linens had been changed, and there was not so much as a single one of her shining hairs detained upon the sheets.
CHAPTER 13
Madame Métier After Her Husband
Following her husband’s death, Madame Métier had to regroup herself. Since she had been left with no money, she decided, in the manner of most widows, to put her house up for sale. However, when the first comers—a man, his wife who chewed gum, and two children with music-producing electronic earmuffs wired to their ears—strewed their way up the walk, Madame Métier thought better of the idea. She told them the house had been sold and forthwith removed the sign from the curb. She would have to think of something else.
Shocked by the prospect of actually having to leave the house in which, when she had worked, she had worked very well, she decided to scrape it down for all possible saleable items.
First of all, there was her husband’s Medicines Chest. After several days of searching, she was able to locate its key wrapped in cotton-wool batting and stuffed in the toe of his left green lizard slipper. This she removed, and after locking all the doors and pulling all the blinds in case she should uncover anything untoward, she went upstairs to the Medicines Chest and immediately opened it up. Inside were various items: his gold-plated toothbrush, a small flask of whiskey, some toothpicks, some red cough medicine and aspirins, stocks of various prescription items (these he had been known to generously dispense), and, in a rusted quite sizeable tin in the far righthand corner, a large quantity of white powder in a tightly rolled up plastic bag. This, when she put her finger to it and licked it, tasted quite strange. Fearing it was something deadly—or, contrarily, that it was something of great medicinal value—she sealed up the box and decided to think things through.
She went to her bed, hoping a good night’s sleep would clarify some things—whether to sell her house or her husband’s possessions—but unfortunately, she was unable to sleep. Her mind was a maelstrom. It was, she noticed, quite distinctly agitated. Perhaps seeing her husband’s things was more upsetting than she had imagined. Perhaps she had loved him more than she guessed. In any case, she lay vividly awake all night, fretting about her precarious future.
When at last the sun came up she realized that, in fact, she had been briefly asleep. This gave her hope. As soon as it was reasonable, she called up her husband’s best friend, one Monsieur Morte, the mortician (his work took up where her husband’s left off), in hop
es that perhaps he would buy, or give her advice about how she might sell, her husband’s medicines.
Monsieur Morte’s main undertaking in life was to store up as many gold bricks as he could in his downtown security vault. These, he supposed, would forestall (at best) or embellish (at worst) his own inevitable demise. For, although he commerced in death, he himself was afraid of it.
Monsieur Morte arrived around noon, wearing a pork pie moustache, a tall fur hat, and black gloves. He did not smile when she opened the door, nor extend her any further condolence—he had done that already, she supposed, when he gave her a bargain burial—but proceeded directly behind her up the stairs to look at the Medicines Chest.
She opened the door to the chest and he looked at the various items: the toothbrush, the red cough syrup, the quantity of stock prescription items. He seemed disgruntled, as if to say, how rude of you to ask me to look at all this when I could be back at my office, profitably embalming someone. But then, with a flicker of interest, he opened the rusted tin box. An unusual, somewhat enthusiastic expression passed through his eyes and was then at once dispelled. He closed up the tin, passed his glance once again across all the various items and suggested that, if this were acceptable to her, he would give her $5,000—for the lot. The white powder, he explained, was a rare but somewhat valuable bulk medicinal substance and perhaps he could sell it to some of his colleagues and friends. Some medicines, of course, were worth more than others. There were some virtually useless over-the-counter items here, but, nevertheless—he repeated himself—he could give her $5,000 for the lot if she could settle it now and if she would make a point in the future of failing to mention what, precisely, had transpired between them.
The Magical World of Madame Métier Page 2