Forgetfulness (13 page)

Such an ugly piece, she said. And you draw so nicely. Who is she? What does it mean?

He didn't know what it meant and told her so. It was what it was and would remain permanently on the south wall of the studio, next to the double windows. The next day he caught her looking at it out of the corners of her bird eyes. While they were watching the funeral she said the portrait was growing on her and it might surprise him to know that she saw something of herself in it. Ugly as it was. Somber as it was. Very well, he said, I'll call it
K Number One.
The riderless horse and the throng of mourners were shuffling down Pennsylvania Avenue when she suddenly reached to turn off the television. She said, Come to bed. They were together one year and in that time he painted six
K
's, each of a radically different mood. The original did remain on the studio wall but all the others he sold, and with the money he decided to go to Europe. He described the grand time they would have together but she refused to go with him. I could never live abroad, she said. I could never leave my mother. My place is here. I would like to have a child, she said, but I know that's not in your future. This is your future, she said, gesturing at the sketches and the portrait on the south wall. He said tentatively, You wouldn't have to stay if you didn't like it. Don't you think we need a change of scene? Karen smiled enigmatically and remarked that he was lucky, to love a thing as much as he loved his work.

When Thomas looked up from the newspaper he noticed lights
downstairs in St. John Granger's farmhouse. A thin rope of smoke rose from the chimney. The night was cold and dead calm, the sky brilliant with stars. He was happy seeing the lights and the chimney smoke; no doubt Ghislaine had decided to clean house at last. Thomas was laying a fire when he heard a knock at the door, three sharp, official-sounding raps. Thomas had seen no one for days and he did not want company now. He was remembering the model Karen, a girl with the most beautiful shoulders since Garbo, with a smile to match; when he left for Europe she had gone west to find work in films, but the West had not worked out and she returned to New York and married a diplomat posted to the United Nations, an Argentine or a Brazilian, a successful marriage so far as he knew.
K Number Two
was now in Milwaukee, an acquisition that caused the resignation of two museum trustees and prompted a furious editorial in one of the newspapers. The headline read: "Pornographic Trash."

Another knock, louder than the others.

Thomas was not interested in talking with anyone just then, quite content to rummage about in his memory as he read bits and pieces of the newspaper. It seemed to him that he had not had a conversation in months, discounting his nocturnal discussions with Florette; that was enough, except now Karen had interfered, and someone was at the door.

She was American, fiftyish, bundled in a green parka and ski hat, a tartan scarf around her throat, sealskin boots on her feet. A fringe of gray hair peeked from under the hat. She stood in the doorway shivering, introducing herself as Victoria, no last name, from Pennsylvania, no city specified, direct descendant of St. John Granger. His heir, she added. I would like to speak with you, she went on, handing Thomas a bottle of wine, an excellent vintage that he recognized as living in Granger's cellar. He took her parka and indicated the chairs by the fireplace. She removed her gloves finger by finger, with some difficulty because she wore heavy diamond rings on her left hand and a single square-cut sapphire on her right. She handed him the gloves and said she would keep her scarf. She
rubbed her hands together, rattling her bracelets. Thomas again indicated the chairs by the fireplace but she waited a moment before moving. This dreadful place, she said. Do you always keep your houses so cold? I wonder how you stand it. Did the old man freeze to death? I don't know why anyone would want to live in a climate like this. So hostile.

I arrived today, she added. To inspect the place.

It's a fine house, Thomas said. Granger and I had many good times there. I'm sorry he's gone.

I never met him, Victoria said. No one in the family had. He was a mystery man. But he left the house to me in his will. She looked here and there in the living room, a strained expression on her face. She went on, I am his only relative. And my children. Of course they are his relatives also. She moved closer to the fire, warming her hands. I would have called but I didn't have your number. I don't know how the phones work anyhow. Do you wait for a dial tone?

They're ordinary phones, Thomas said. He pulled the cork from the bottle and poured two glasses. Your health, he said, watching her sip slowly and taste with evident suspicion.

Too much tannin, she said.

Do you think so?

Definitely, she said. And it's weak. Past prime.

I agree it's lost some shape. He held his glass to the light, appraising the color of the red. He said, Granger spent eighty years putting his cellar together. Bordeaux red, mostly. Some of the bottles could be sold at auction. If you don't care for this wine, that might be a good solution.

I will, definitely. Thank you, Mr. Railles.

I might buy some of it myself. And call me Thomas.

Thank you, Tom.

Thomas, he said. Only my mother ever called me Tom.

Very well, she said. Thomas.

In the awkward silence that followed she looked around the room once again, eyes narrowing as if she were measuring for curtains. She said, I hope I'm not intruding.

Not at all, he said.

The notaire told me you were a painter.

That's right, he said.

Portraits.

Yes, he said.

So. Are any of these yours?

This one. He pointed to the likeness of Florette over the fireplace. And that one, he said, indicating St. John Granger on the far wall near the refectory table. She made no comment or any sign of recognition.

He said, Will you be here long?

As little time as possible. I wanted my husband to come with me but he refused. He had business in San Francisco. It's just as well. He does not care for France, whereas I adore it. She moved her wineglass out of reach and said, I intend to put the house on the market at once.

Good idea, Thomas said.

I have no use for it. I prefer Paris to the countryside.

Many do, Thomas said, refilling his glass.

It is a beautiful city. The French don't deserve it.

He had no answer to that.

What do you think about a price?

Price of what?

My house—what did you think I meant? The house here.

I have no idea, he said.

You must have an idea. You live here.

I would ask the notaire. The notaire knows the price of everything.

I've been told he's a scoundrel.

Thomas cocked his head thoughtfully. Her information was sound and he wondered where she got it from. Monsieur Villaret was two hundred and fifty pounds of chicanery and bad faith, one to be avoided at all costs, yet he was unavoidable if you intended to do business in St. Michel du Valcabrère. This surly American woman would be no match for him. Villaret was known in the village as
Monsieur Corpse-counter. He knew where all the bodies were buried. Thomas said, Unfortunately, he is the man to see.

I don't trust him, she said.

No one does. But that's beside the point.

He speaks no English, she said.

He speaks a little, Thomas said.

All the same, I intend to have my own lawyer from Paris.

Very wise, Thomas said. That will help a great deal.

You don't sound convinced.

I'm afraid that in his domain Monsieur Villaret is king.

Small potatoes, she said, nodding decisively. I think my lawyer will be able to handle him. Victoria went on to describe the lawyer from Paris. He and his American wife lived in a hôtel particulier in the Sixteenth Arrondissement, a very well-known address that had been visited often by the friends of Marcel Proust. The wife was a patron of the arts. The lawyer rode horses. He had outstanding connections in the government, including an extremely close friendship with the president of the republic.

He knows how things are done in the provinces, so my little problem is as good as settled, don't you see...

Thomas took another swallow of wine, his attention wandering. He was remembering the model, her Garbo shoulders and quick smile, her green eyes and good cheer, always ready for anything. They had had a wonderful collaboration. Karen loved to pose as much as he loved to paint. For the time they were together they were indispensable to each other. At night they haunted the downtown artists' bars, where things were always just slightly out of hand. But when the time came for him to leave she refused to go with him, insisting that her destiny was to live and die in America with a man who loved her and wanted to be father to her children. She and New York City were soul mates. That was what yoga had taught her. Thomas never understood about yoga, as he never understood the attraction to America. Last he heard, Karen and the diplomat had gone back to Rio or Buenos Aires, one or the other. The diplomat had persuaded her to change homelands, something she said she
would never do, no matter what. Probably the diplomat had promised a child, in fact had insisted on it, muchos niños. Thomas hoped to God Karen was happy. She deserved a rich and uncomplicated happiness.

So there won't be any trouble with the notaire.

I certainly hope not, Thomas said.

The fat boy's history.

I'm glad to hear it, he said, imagining the sleekly coiffed and tailored Paris lawyer and Monsieur Villaret in close conversation in the notaire's office across the street from the Mairie, the walls crowded with dossiers in file folders. The meeting would take place toward the end of the day; the Parisian would have brought a bottle of something, probably calvados. They would toast each other, then discuss precisely how the pie would be cut, the size of the slices, and how much of it would remain for their American client.

Victoria nodded sharply, case closed. And then she murmured, I'm very sorry about your wife.

Thomas took a step backward, startled by the sudden change of subject. He said, Yes. Well. Thank you.

The experience must have been terrible for her.

Yes, he said. It was.

And for you, too, of course.

Yes.

The notaire said she died in a fall on the mountain. Yes, she did.

And that there were others involved.

Yes, there were.

And she was abused.

Abused?

Yes, they abused her. That was what the notaire told me.

It took Thomas a moment to understand the word, to understand it as she apparently wished it to be understood, this contemporary American word that did not exactly fit the situation. Abused? They cut Florette's throat. He said, I suppose you could say that.

Ghastly, she said. I'm so sorry.

He nodded slowly, an acknowledgment. He said, I wish you good luck with the notaire. If I hear anything about prices, I'll let you know.

Is that her picture? She pointed at Florette's portrait, reaching to touch the frame, not two feet from where they stood.

As she was five years ago, Thomas said.

She is a lovely-looking woman. Was she French?

Born in the village.

How amazing!

We were married in the church here.

Extraordinary, she said.

Florette insisted. And I was happy to oblige.

I can hardly believe it!

We wanted a quiet ceremony but the whole village showed up. Filled the church. Rained all day long.

I can't imagine it! Victoria was silent a moment—dumbstruck, it seemed to Thomas, by these fantastic events. And then she said, I meant no harm, what I said about the French.

It's a common enough opinion, he said.

We're having a difficult time with them now.

You are?

Why, yes. Our government. It's a time of strained relations. We want one thing and the French want another.

Ah, he said. You mean Bush's war.

An American war, she said.

And getting more so every day.

It's the world's war, really. The world war on terror.

Much of the world doesn't agree.

So shortsighted, she said, sighing heavily. The French are the worst. They are afraid to look the future in the face. They're afraid of it. They're afraid history will repeat itself, so they want to stop the clocks. They're afraid of tomorrow and they've lost their spirit of adventure. They've lost confidence. Instead, they're attracted to pessimism. And when we say to them that we're working for a better tomorrow, they don't believe us because their better days are right
now. This is the problem, you see. They hate and fear the twentieth century and they think that's coming around again. That's what the Americans have in store for them, a new world war. And when it's over only we'll be left standing. Perhaps the Chinese as well. They don't understand that a small war will prevent a larger war. Islamists must be punished for what they've done and plan to do, that's the simple truth of it.

Not simple, he thought. Not the truth. But she was not as dumb as he thought. Thomas said, They're afraid of the future because they're afraid of America.

You've been in France too long.

It's a different perspective than Pennsylvania that's true.

Thank God for George Bush. And—she smiled triumphantly—Maître Brun agrees with me.

Maître Brun?

My lawyer in Paris.

Thomas looked at his watch and took another swallow of wine. He put a log on the fire and stood back as sparks flew. It had been years since he talked politics with an American outside his own orbit, a stranger. The American woman—he had forgotten her name—now stood with her hands primly clasped, staring at the portrait of St. John Granger. Thomas poured wine into his glass and stood waiting for her to say her goodbye. But she was not ready.

And that is my great-uncle?

Yes, it is.

Is it a good likeness?

I think so, Thomas said.

He looks emaciated.