This Is All a Lie

by Thomas Trofimuk

  “Vigorously,” Tulah says, pleased with the recovered remnants of her high school French.

  “Oui, vigorously.”

  “Merci,” Ray says, as he flips open his journal and scratches the name of the book onto the page.

  The maître d’ watches Ray write. “Non,” he says. “Please allow me.” He takes the pen and writes out the name of the book. “This book will bring you pleasure. Though, I do not know if it is translated.”

  He pours a little more wine into each of their glasses and when he is gone, Tulah smokes quietly for a while. A French police car passes the hotel with its donkey-braying siren, a sparrow pecks the ground a few metres away, and she takes a sip of her wine. “The air is yellow here,” she says. “It’s like we’re inside a Chagall painting – with those muted yellows of his – you know? The yellows that are bold and quiet at the same time.”

  “If this was a Chagall painting, we would need a blue horse, or a red horse,” Ray says.

  “And our hands,” she says. “Our hands would have to be deformed – our fingers would look like bloated sausages.”

  “Yes. His hands are horrible but it doesn’t matter because there is so much desire.”

  Tulah giggles. “And we would have to be naked and embraced in a corner somewhere – barely noticeable.”

  “Like a beautiful afterthought,” Ray says. “And there must be flowers, and birds.”

  “Lots of flowers,” she says. “And perhaps I should only have one breast.”

  “Well, one breast is more than enough, but, in theory, two are more fun.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Yes,” Ray says, lifting the bottle from the table. “Here, have some more wine and then perhaps we can retire to our room and investigate this theory.”

  * * *

  They have been dating for a year and have just started to talk about living together. They’re spending a lot of time together, and rarely sleep alone. In September, Ray has to be in Sacramento for a Cybersecurity and Data Privacy Law Conference, so they go together and add an extra week at the end, to explore the area. Ray attends the conference and Tulah catches up on her reading. After the conference, they wind up in the Lime Kiln Valley, looking for Zinfandel wine.

  On their first night staying in a bed and breakfast attached to a vineyard, Ray and Tulah wander away from the guesthouse and find themselves near the staff dormitory. Jesús Patiño is playing a guitar and his girlfriend, María Guadalupe, is singing. There are perhaps twenty people around a fire, listening. The song is honest and melancholy, and when it ends, they move closer to the fire because they want more. The Mexicans offer them wine, and beer, and stilted conversation. They try to meet in the middle between English and Spanish so neither language is fully spoken. At midnight there are only a few workers left because they start early in the morning and it’s backbreaking work.

  Each night after this, Ray and Tulah show up at the fire to listen to the music and talk. Some of the workers are less than thrilled about this invasion of their private time, but they seem to relax when Ray tells them he is putting himself through school by working as a gardener.

  The third night at the fire, a man named Juan gets down on both knees and proposes to his girlfriend, Gabriela, who bursts into tears and knocks Juan over with her enthusiasm. Ray and Tulah are included in the celebration. They dance and sing, and are happy for the newly engaged couple.

  Later, in bed, Tulah turns to Ray. “I love it that we were there tonight, but what if she’d said no, or that she needed time?”

  “It’s risky,” Ray says. “That sort of love is always risky. It’s jumping from a high place and learning how to fly on the way down.”

  “It would have been a bummer. A big bummer.” She has been drinking and she is over-pronouncing her ‘b’s.

  “It’s about taking a leap of faith. It’s worth the risk.”

  “But I wouldn’t want a public proposal,” she says. “Not that I think there’s one coming. But I think I would prefer a private proposal because then, the answer can be completely honest.” She is talking with her hands and pointing at him.

  “Duly noted,” Ray says.

  “And no big weddings. No, no, no. Small and dimple – simple. I want to wear a black cocktail dress.”

  “No saying yes to an obscenely frilly and poofy dress?”

  “Nope. Little black dress,” she says. “That’s it. And nice shoes. But that’s it. Really expensive nice shoes.”

  * * *

  The next day, at a restaurant in Sonora, Ray asks her. He doesn’t get down on one knee, because he’s a good listener. He tries to be low-key about it, so it doesn’t get blown out of proportion, so it doesn’t draw attention. But Tulah is beyond delighted. She jumps up and is standing in the aisle, shouting “yes, yes, yes” and by the time she is finished, the whole restaurant knows and Ray suspects people on the street know. The manager sends over a bottle of champagne.

  “So much for private and honest,” he says.

  “Oh, to hell with private, and anyway, I am honest. This makes me happy. I’m ecstatic.”

  “So you don’t need a ring, because I can take this back. I thought maybe…” He’s digging around in his trouser pockets.

  “What?”

  “This.” He places the box on the table and Tulah rips the ribbon off. She looks inside at a diamond and sapphire ring.

  “My God, Ray,” she says. “It’s beyond beautiful.”

  The manager comes and sits down with them. Tulah slips the ring onto her finger and goes on a tour of the restaurant to show anyone and everyone. She goes into the kitchen to show the chef and out into the back alley to show their waitress, Bunny, who is taking her break with a cigarette and talking on her phone. Bunny disconnects. She is excited for Tulah, and they come back inside as Ray is opening the second bottle of champagne. Ray watches Bunny as she drinks her champagne. Even though she’s smiling, there’s sadness in her eyes.

  * * *

  That night, after Ray and Tulah share the news with the Mexicans, Jesús Patiño and his fiancée, María Guadalupe, kiss and hug them repeatedly. They are happy and insist the engaged couple join them at the fire to celebrate. Ray and Tulah drink a good deal of tequila, and beer, and more tequila. Afterwards, in bed, their heads are spinning as they talk about when they might get married.

  “My schedule is open,” Ray says. “After the massive hangover I’m anticipating, my schedule is open.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon then,” Tulah says. Her voice is resolute and fast.

  “What?” He’s not sure if she’s serious.

  “I’m not a big fan of long engagements.” Tulah is thinking about her girlfriend, Beth, who has been engaged for fourteen years, and counting.

  “I see. You don’t like to fool around, do you?”

  “Too quick for you?” She pouts as if this is a comment on the quantity of love or the quality of his love.

  “A little surprising. I mean I was really thinking of a longer engagement.” Tulah’s face drops. Ray smiles and continues. “I was kinda hoping for the day after tomorrow.”

  Ray was actually thinking maybe a year down the road, which would have left them loads of time to plan for a simple, elegant and small wedding.

  “Well,” Tulah says, “Marriage is all about compromise, so the day after tomorrow is fine for me. Maybe we can arrange for a minister when we go into town to shop for my little black dress.”

  It turns out the manager of the Lime Kiln Valley vineyard, California, knows a lot of the right people – she arranges everything, including wedding rings and a wedding dinner on the crush pad. Pastor Bob, and his wife Clarice, from Sonora, perform the ceremony, and Jesús and María act as witnesses. Pastor Bob is not the first choice, but rather the first available on short notice. He’s more Buddhist than anything else. He ends with “To say the
words love and compassion is easy. But to accept that love and compassion are built upon patience and perseverance is not easy. Your marriage will be firm and lasting if you remember this.”

  They gather on the crush pad, with massive oak barrels stacked six high behind them. Jesús plays his guitar and sings a song called Te Amo as Tulah makes her entrance. María Guadalupe cries through the entire service – she weeps, softly, and Ray and Tulah are not certain if these are tears of sadness or joy.

  13½

  the pungent, spicy scent from her armpits

  Honestly, do you really care how Ray and Tulah meet? Because you’re about to experience that story. Or, if you’re reading this book backwards – and you know you are – you have just finished reading the story of how they met. Meeting in the darkened ballroom of a hotel in the mountains as snow is falling is a fine story. Add in the grand piano and the minor chords and it’s a very good story. You’re usually hesitant to ask about other peoples’ how-we-met stories. You’re afraid of a dreadfully bad story, during which you’ll force yourself to smile and nod. And whoever is telling the bad story will look at you and know you’re faking. They’ll see through your lie. You believe all how-we-met stories ought to be amazing because you believe falling in love is akin to having your heads bashed together – it’s violent and irrational and marvellous. That four-letter word can rip things apart. It’s like ploughing a field. Like falling off the roof of a house. Like a punch to the stomach. Even if half the story is pure fabrication, it ought to be brilliant.

  Attraction is weird. Apart from the physical, for Tulah, it was the fact Ray heard her when she said she loved Chagall, and he remembered. That was the tipping point for her. For Ray, it was Tulah’s boldness and her willingness to play. She could be playful in the checkout of a grocery store, or sitting in front of a mirror putting on her makeup, and she was more sexually playful than any woman he knew.

  * * *

  Ray and Tulah send Christmas cards to Jesús Patiño and his wife María every year, without fail. Jesús manages a hotel resort near Tulum. They have four kids.

  * * *

  Perhaps you are wondering about the possibility of some background, or summary information that could be offered up here. Well, when Tulah was thirty-two years old and Ray was thirty-four, there was a period of time spanning twenty-three months in which they didn’t have sex once. Not even a breathless kiss. There was a litany of excuses. Tulah was having her periods. Ray’s beard was too scratchy. They were both too tired. One of them had a cold. The girls were restless, or not sleeping well, or sick.

  There were a few failed attempts, and eventually, it started to feel like too much work. They forgave themselves. They fumed silently. They resented each other – each blaming the other for getting old, or losing interest, or drifting into complacency. They forgave each other. They sighed, rolled over and went to sleep.

  One night, well into the drought, they were in bed and Ray started to caress Tulah – moving his hand along her leg, and hip, and waist. He wasn’t really thinking. It seemed like a natural thing. He wanted to touch her. The impulse surprised him. The girls were in bed. He was just touching, seeing what might happen. Something sexual, or not. It was an open-ended caress because he remembered how good it felt to be touched. He could feel her body respond – she moved ever so slightly toward his touch. But when he brushed her inner thigh with his fingertips, Tulah pulled away. She stared at him. “It’s late. And your fingers are so cold. Why do you always do that?” She covered up and moved away. “I have an early staff meeting,” she said.

  He was thinking – so that’s it? It’s all ruined? One step off the invisible line of Tulah’s perfect flight path and it’s over? God, it used to be so much easier. Whatever it was about to become was done. Ray wasn’t even sure he wanted to make love. He was only feeling around and now, he felt beyond stupid. Was he too eager? Probably. But it had been a year since he’d touched a woman like this. He felt like he had no idea how to touch his wife. If there was a manual that outlined, step-by-step, how to make love with Tulah, he’d misplaced his, or not read the revised edition. Each attempted loving was a stumble into the land of wrong. It was a minefield of mistaken choices. It was disheartening. A long time ago, he thought he was a pretty decent lover. Maybe he was delusional. Maybe he really was a daft, blundering moron and he has always been an incompetent lover.

  A couple weeks later, Tulah crawled on top of him and tried to put him inside her. She was shocked when he wasn’t instantly ready and asked Ray why he didn’t find her attractive anymore. She’d gained a little weight but he’d always said it was fine. He was not obsessed with skinny women. He liked curves. But maybe it wasn’t fine anymore. She was upset.

  Ray felt like she was just trying to fuck him so it wouldn’t be over a year without sex and this did not feel good. He wanted her to want to be with him. This felt like she was fulfilling some wifely duty. As if she was obligated. It was bizarre.

  “You owe me nothing,” he said. “This doesn’t feel right. Do this because you want to do it, not because you feel you have to.”

  “I do want to,” she said. “You’re not turned on. You don’t find me attractive.”

  Jesus, women are stupid, he thought. “I’m not sixteen,” he said. “I actually need foreplay too.” Ray got out of bed. He shut the bedroom door and checked on the girls. Sarah was two years old, and Patience was three. They were both sound sleepers. He went down the hall and poured a substantial portion of whisky into a squat glass. He flipped through his albums and found Miles Davis’s Sketches of Spain. He slid open the veranda windows and the rain smell pushed into the room. He sat on the couch and even though the Miles Davis wasn’t working, he felt so beaten down, he just let it play. Tulah did not follow him down the hall and into the living room. She cocooned inside her own aloneness.

  Tulah was aware that she was depressed. Ray had no clue about his state of mind. He knew something was wrong. He would not have called it depression. He would have called it a lull. He did not like feeling so far away from Tulah but he was starting to get used to it – it was becoming the norm. He worried that perhaps in a day or two – perhaps in a month, or a year, or twenty minutes, he wouldn’t be able, or wouldn’t have the desire to make love anymore. As much as Ray tried to convince himself it was okay to not make love, not touch, not be touched – it was after midnight and he was sitting alone, drinking whisky, and listening to a scratchy Miles Davis record that was decidedly not the right music.

  * * *

  petrichor

  noun

  [PET-ri-kuhr]

  A pleasant smell that frequently accompanies the first rain after a long period of warm, dry weather.

  * * *

  Maybe you’re worried about Claude Garamond and his work with the Garamond font. You might be wondering, if there was a promise to not include him as a character, why does he keep popping up? What possible insights would another scene with old Claude Garamond provide? It’s 1536, the first of March, and Garamond is working on a typeface that will be used to set the text of a book called Paraphrasis in Elegantiarum Libros Laurentii Vallae, by a writer named Erasmus. It will be his first step toward a fully realized Garamond font.

  He is in bed with his wife and his eyes are so tired he can barely keep them open. Even though it is remarkably dark in the room, there is a bit of the moon in the sky and there are stars. He can just barely see the line of his wife’s body. He can see the moon on her skin. And he can smell her – the pungent, spicy scent from her armpits and a soft musty scent of a faded perfume. He is sure she can smell him too and prays it is not too much. He did not go to the river to wash up after his work in the studio and it was a hot day.

  “You’re working too hard,” Marie Isabelle says. “I’m worried about you.”

  Garamond ignores her and begins to trace the outline of her hip and her waist. He traces the curve of her breast with his fin
gertips, and she grunts – just one involuntary grunt, and he knows she is fine with this touching.

  She is exhausted but at the same time she wants to be defined in space. She wants the pleasure. She purposely places aside the fact there is something wrong with three of the chickens, and that there is money owing to the vintner, and the butcher, and the baker. Her mother is not well – she is struggling to walk and she has fallen down a dozen times in the past months. And she gets news of Paris that is a month old, sometimes more. But this is the man she loves and Marie Isabelle believes in the importance of their marriage.

  Garamond knows he is working too hard. He knows this and when he started to touch her he was not really touching her body – he was tracing the curve of an imagined letter z – lower case and italics – which will eventually surprise and delight even the most liberal and adventurous publishing houses. He noticed the curve of her hip and was immediately tracing the swirl of a letter. It was going to be astounding and certainly unique. When it is fully developed, the italics of this new font will not only mimic the beauty of handwriting, it will carve out a new way of seeing this letter. Garamond had almost removed himself from their bed and rushed off to his studio to sketch the line of the space between his wife’s breasts into the z. But she grunted and this snapped him away from fonts and letterforms – it brought him to skin, and scent, and pleasure. It brought him to her. He knew that grunt was the beginning of surrender. He loved her for this grunt and for all her grunts and moans.

  When they are spent, Marie Isabelle looks at Garamond. “Where are the snows of yesteryear?” she says.