The Post-Birthday World

by Lionel Shriver

  “Now I suggest we skip the birthday thing this year, and you go bananas.”

  “I’m not going bananas. I’m saying we should be considerate. It would cost us one night. I’d do all the cooking—”

  “And I’ll buy the entire case of wine the guy will go through in one night. Or morning, more like it.”

  “I could tell him that you have to get up early to work.”

  “Don’t bother. To Ramsey, getting up in the morning—at all, much less to work—is an alien concept. He’d hang on to four a.m., as usual.”

  “You used to like him.”

  “Yeah, well, sometimes I just go off people.”

  “I know.” There was a dolefulness in her voice that he didn’t notice.

  Yet after all that, once Irina did ring Ramsey, he had other plans. Did she remember his telling her about the Ooty Club, in India? He referred to their evening in Bournemouth as if it were a long time ago. Of course, she assured him. Well, he was going on a hadj. She was surprised that he knew the word. A pilgrimage, she said. Yes, he said. He would be gone for most of July. A visit to a single snooker table wouldn’t consume a whole month, and she wondered if he was drawn to the subcontinent, like so many Westerners, in a mystic, searching way. Well, have a lovely trip, she said. The call was so short, his voice so distant, that she rang off perplexed at how close she’d felt to him last year. Yet it crossed her mind that he might have arranged to be abroad for his birthday on purpose.

  She was bereft the rest of the day. Abandoning the tradition broke a spell of sorts, and Ramsey would have known that. Lawrence would be delighted. Now there would be no obligation to see Ramsey next July, or the many Julys thereafter.

  IT WAS AN ORDINARY difference of opinion, but later the memory from that autumn would stand out. Before they got ready for bed, Lawrence had grown heated about the impeachment proceedings under way in the U.S. Congress.

  “I thought you hated Clinton,” she said.

  “He’s a smarm,” said Lawrence. “A megalomaniac with no principles other than the eternal elevation of William Jefferson Clinton. But. He is smart.”

  “Good God, you never say that about anybody, and now when you do it’s about someone who’s done something incredibly stupid.”

  “Fooling around with that cow was ill-advised, but politically meaningless.”

  “Lying isn’t politically meaningless.”

  “It is when it’s about sex.”

  “Oh, you’re not going to say that, are you? Not all men lie about sex.”

  “Well, they do!”

  “Do you?”

  Lawrence reared back. “Of course not!”

  “And why is it only men who are supposed to lie about sex? If it’s such an intrinsically mendacious subject, why don’t all women lie about it, too?”

  “They probably do!”

  “So do you think I lie about sex?”

  “Not really.”

  “Not really?”

  “Not at all!”

  “So what makes you and me so special?”

  “Irina, we’re talking in bland generalities.”

  “I’m not. You are. So I’m asking you: what makes us so special?”

  “Because we have … some sense of decency, I guess. A good relationship. Though that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t cut each other a little slack.”

  “What kind of slack?”

  “I don’t know, like if I watch a woman walk down the street who has nice gams, I wouldn’t expect you to take my head off.”

  “But we’re not talking about checking out some woman’s legs. We’re talking about feeling her up and coming all over her and then claiming self-righteously over and over that you did no such thing!”

  “Okay! I wouldn’t expect to be cut that much slack.”

  “Why apply a higher standard of behavior to ourselves than we do to the president?”

  “Why are you suddenly so prudish? Who cares if Clinton jerks off on some intern’s dress, so long as he doesn’t accidentally press The Button while he’s getting his rocks off?”

  “I’m not a prude, because sex wasn’t the subject. The subject was lying.”

  “About sex.”

  “About anything. Back in February, Clinton stared straight into the camera, looking me, who voted for him, in the eye. And he said, without blinking, ‘I did not have sexual relations with—that woman—Ms. Lewinsky.’ Bozhe moi, the little pauses, as if he couldn’t even remember her name. I felt personally insulted.”

  “So he didn’t handle it well. That shouldn’t be an impeachable offense. This campaign the Republicans are on, it’s sheer opportunism, and abuse of the Constitution.”

  “You really don’t think it’s important, do you? That he’s stonewalled on this thing for the better part of a year?”

  “No, I don’t. I think it’s important that he ordered missile strikes on Sudan and Afghanistan, and I think it’s important, unfortunately, that he missed Osama bin Laden.”

  Irina didn’t recognize the name, but wasn’t in the mood to play up to his expertise. “All that matters is the big worthy work that men do. Whether they lie through their teeth and the way they treat their wives is trivial.”

  “I didn’t say that, but we were talking about politics and not what we think of Clinton as a person. As a person, okay, he’s a creep. But he doesn’t deserve to be kicked out of office for shoving his cigar up Monica’s box. Waste of a good cigar, in my opinion, which maybe should be impeachable.” Along with most American males at the time, Lawrence found Clinton’s most egregious offense that of poor taste. Monica was fat, homely, and dumb, and the president of the United States could have done better.

  Irina plopped into her chair. “Oh, I guess I wouldn’t have him impeached, either. But I would see him divorced. And that’s not going to happen. Hillary’s worse than he is. All that vast right-wing conspiracy rubbish, after they’d obviously been scheming for days. Then she’ll pretend to be all shocked and hurt if he ever comes clean, and she’ll always stick to her story. They’re not lovers, they’re a cabal—it’s the Clintons who are a conspiracy. They make backroom deals, little pacts and tradeoffs, for their mutual self-promotion. I guess that’s one way of doing things, but for a marriage it’s awfully bloodless.”

  There Irina stopped. Her depiction sounded a disturbing echo.

  IN ALL, LAWRENCE HAD been testy ever since returning from Russia in June, and the prospect of a Brighton Beach Christmas didn’t improve his demeanor.

  “I know your relationship with your mother is difficult,” said Lawrence, the train to Heathrow once more stalled between stations. “But I want you to make me a promise.”

  “Shoot,” said Irina.

  “Promise that you won’t pick a fight with her.”

  “She’s the one who does the picking!”

  “Don’t rise to the bait, then. This trip is trying enough without yet another catfight. That thing about the napkin last year was ridiculous.”

  “What’s the point of having a napkin, if you can’t use it to dab your mouth?”

  “She was right, beet juice stains. Not that I give a shit, it was pricey linen. But let’s not hash that out again. It was boring enough the first time.” He’d always been a tease, but lately his barbs weren’t funny.

  Of course, every couple went through periods when they were closer, then farther apart, right? Lawrence was obviously under pressure at work, and she shouldn’t have made him squander his brief holiday on her family. And after snaking for an hour through the check-in queue at BA, anyone would be cantankerous. It was a miracle they were still able to joke in duty-free about buying Raisa a two-pound Toblerone before settling on a slim bottle of fino sherry—on special.

  Boarded, Lawrence immediately booted his laptop, though he’d have to shut it off again before takeoff. Not in the mood to read, Irina reflected wistfully on the days when taking an airplane was more adventure than ordeal—though she still managed to marshal that absurd sens
e of anticipation of a roundly inedible meal. She wanted to ask Lawrence to talk to her, but that would mean lining up something to talk about. There was something to talk about, but she couldn’t quite name it to herself, and flailing attempts to get at it were bound to make his mood even worse.

  So she focused instead on what to order from the beverage cart. She rather fancied a glass of red wine, but it was only four-thirty p.m., and Lawrence wouldn’t approve of drinking in the afternoon. Indeed, as the plane inched through the takeoff queue, the amount of energy she lavished on wine versus goody-goody juice was preposterous. Thank God that no one could glimpse inside her head, this ostensible artist obsessing over a miniature of Beaujolais. Imagine if other people could hear what you were thinking, and what drastically different estimations of one another you might make in that case. Would the discovery that everyone else on the plane was preoccupied with what kind of free booze they would order prove comforting or depressing?

  By the time the cart juddered to their seats, her thoughts had moved on to why she was so afraid to defy Lawrence’s displeasure. It wasn’t her fault that his mother was an alcoholic, the label itself a puzzle; on visits to Las Vegas Irina’s de facto mother-in-law had downed two or three drinks, but nothing to worry about. Might his mother be less a drunk than her son a killjoy?

  Lawrence ordered seltzer. Irina asked for tomato juice.

  After the meal, an amorous couple in the middle seats opposite began going at it under the minimal cover of an airline blanket. Low grunts and moans were punctuated by stifled giggles. The blanket writhed, and for periods of time a head would disappear beneath it. This same couple did not share Lawrence’s abhorrence of drinking in the afternoon, and had been requesting their plane fare’s worth in vodka miniatures since takeoff.

  “Jesus Christ,” Lawrence muttered, loud enough to be heard. “Get a room.”

  Irina didn’t care for that expression—hip in timbre, puritanical in intent. Why was it any skin off Lawrence’s nose if a couple of kids couldn’t keep their hands off each other? He wasn’t Muslim or anything. She could see being amused, or fascinated, a little bored since you’d seen it before, or even charmed, but not, absent religious objections, offended.

  Yet Lawrence’s disgust knew no bounds. “Better push the button for the flight attendant, Irina. See if she’s got a Durex. While she’s at it, have her bring me a barf bag.”

  “Lawrence!” Irina whispered. “They’re not doing any harm, and they can hear you!”

  “Or maybe ask for a fistful of Finlandias,” he continued, jacking up the volume. “Another couple of rounds, and he won’t know his cock from his elbow. Then maybe we’d be able to watch the movie.”

  “You’re such a jerk.”

  “I’m not a jerk,” he corrected. “I’m an asshole. Calling an accredited asshole a run-of-the-mill jerk is like forgetting to call an MBE sir.”

  “Sir Asshole, then,” she said. “Shut up!”

  When they settled into The Full Monty, the grappling in the middle seats subsided just as Irina identified the feeling the exhibition had stirred. She wasn’t amused exactly, or fascinated, certainly not bored, and decidedly not offended. All right, maybe she was a little charmed. But most of all, she was jealous.

  ONCE THE DOOR FLEW open, Raisa paused a theatrical beat—that they might take in her stunning outfit—before throwing her arms wide and proceeding with the usual smacking and grasping of shoulders that Irina didn’t buy for a minute. In her mother’s embrace, she stiffened.

  “Dobro pozhalovat!” Raisa effused. “Ya tak rada vas vidyet! Pozhaluysta prokhoditye, prokhoditye!”

  “Man,” said Lawrence. “That’s one drop-dead dress, Raisa! After the last year’s wardrobe, I’m always waiting to see if you’ll top yourself!”

  Irina rolled a quiet eye. The line was typical. Top yourself in Britain meant commit suicide. With Raisa, Lawrence liked to have his cake and make fun of it, too.

  They bundled the luggage upstairs, packed the clothes into drawers, and buried the bags out of sight. Just because it was their room didn’t mean that Raisa wouldn’t chafe at a dropped sock. Lawrence brought the sherry downstairs, but declined when Raisa offered to open it; she looked pleased, as if he’d passed a test. He proceeded to admire her hairstyle, to admire her fitness, to admire the Christmas tree. Irina’s mother had absolutely no idea the kind of irreverent, caustic man she lived with; honestly, it was almost as if Raisa had never met Lawrence. If Irina were her mother, she’d be wondering what on earth her daughter saw in this earnest lickspittle.

  Raisa left to get tea. Lawrence perched on red velveteen; he looked uncomfortable, keeping that shelf from ramming into his neck, but he knew better than to move the chair. When Raisa returned, he leapt to take the tray.

  “Your tea service is dynamite,” said Lawrence. “Must be worth something.”

  Raisa beamed. Irina shook her head. Given its transparency, she was always amazed that flattery worked. And it wasn’t only her mother who was gullible on this point. It worked with everybody.

  “Da,” said Raisa. “Such shame. Creamer and sugar bowl some of only pieces left of china my mother cart from Soviet Union in trunk. Heirloom, from her mother. For years, our family envy of other Russians in Paris, who have nothing from old country! Most unusual cobalt blue, I never see anywhere else. Like color in stained-glass window!”

  Lawrence had heard about the cobalt china A MILLION TIMES. At last he chimed in sympathetically, “Too bad. I heard Charles threw it at you, one plate at a time.”

  Sanitized! Irina had said that they threw it at each other.

  Well trained, Lawrence poured a round, while Irina studied the sideboard’s crowning samovar, which had likewise survived the war in her grandmother’s mythic trunk. If a glorified teakettle, and far too laborious to use, the great bulbous brass urn was handsome, and she’d always coveted the samovar a little; it carried off the same haughty bearing as its mistress, and seemed to constitute the seat of power in this house. The chances of her inheriting the thing were scant. Tatyana’s name was written all over it.

  “Tak, Lawrence. What you work on now?”

  “Well, you remember that I spent a month this spring in Russia. You wouldn’t believe Moscow these days. Restaurants, hotels, boutiques… The semicriminal elite has money to burn, but the proles are in bad shape. The begging and public drunkenness are terrible. Did you know that in Russia, beer is classified as a soft drink?”

  As they were treated to a mini-lecture on the state of the erstwhile Evil Empire, Raisa folded her hands in rapt fascination. He loved being the authority—so let him. Nevertheless, in a just world they would both be updating her mother about the country that Raisa had left behind, rather than those two bonding their hearts out while Irina played with her tea ball.

  “YOUR DRESS IS A knockout!” Irina whispered in her old bedroom. “Sure ’nuff, you look in great shape! Lawrence Lawrensovich, you are shameless.”

  “What’s shameless is she eats it up,” Lawrence said quietly. “I’ve asked her where she got that samovar a dozen times. She never remembers telling me.”

  “Why should she? She rabbits on about that samovar to everybody.”

  “The rest may be horseshit, but she does look pretty damned good for sixty-four.”

  Irina had still not recuperated from the fit of ravenousness that hit her over the summer, and coming home was having the predictable psychic effect. “I knew it,” she said, looking at herself critically in the mirror.

  “My mother always makes me feel fat.”

  Lawrence said lightly, “You haven’t gained that much weight.”

  It was the first time he’d acknowledged that she’d gained any.

  WHILE IRINA WAS HUDDLED over her coffee the next morning, Lawrence strode into the kitchen in moist sweats, exuding the boisterous self-righteousness particular to people who launch barbarically into the cold in trainers out of a dead sleep. “Well, that must have been close to six miles!
” he said, still breathing hard.

  Irina frowned. Detesting the exercise nut, she treasured his moderation. “You wouldn’t usually do more than four.”

  “Eh. Doesn’t hurt sometimes to push it.”

  “Lawrence, you want breakfast?” asked Raisa, still in her leotard. “Eggs? Black bread?”

  “Nah. Just coffee, thanks.”

  The warmth of the coffee glass cupped in both hands didn’t penetrate the gloves, so Irina clapped her palms to get the blood running.

  “You make your point, Irina, you can stop dramatics with your hands,” said her mother, in English for Lawrence’s benefit. He’d convinced her that he remembered nothing of his university Russian, the better to eavesdrop on her asides. As a result, he knew exactly what Raisa thought of his dress sense.

  “I’m not being dramatic, I’m trying to get them warm. You always think I’m having you on, but I do have a condition—”

  “Every American have condition. Big competition, who have more conditions. No American ever say, ‘My hands cold.’ Has to have fancy name.”

  “Yeah, you have to join a group,” said Lawrence. “With confessional meetings and a Web page.”

  “Are you telling me,” Irina charged her partner, “that Raynaud’s is all in my head?”

  “You get up in morning, and exercise, Irina, you stay warm all day!”

  “She’s right,” said Lawrence. “If you started the day with a few calisthenics, you’d probably stimulate your circulation.”

  “If I started the day with turning up the thermostat, I’d stimulate it a lot more.”

  “Irina, you should see gas bill!”

  “But it’s bloody Christmas Eve!”

  Lawrence shot a warning look across her bow: You promised. “Actually, the price of natural gas has been escalating pretty steeply. New exploration hasn’t yielded much, and even the reserves in the North Sea are drying up.”

  “Once in a while,” said Irina, “it would be nice not to address the whole state of the world as if we’re all on 60 Minutes, but one modestly sized house, on a single morning, which is Christmas Eve, and the woman you love is cold.”