Le Divorce (10 page)

I had recently seen Charlotte de Persand Saxe on the sly in the same way. She telephoned me one day and suggested we have the coffee we had mentioned having. I spent the afternoon
at the Randolphs’, then went along to meet her in a cafe across from the Bon Marché. She fished for her cigarettes almost before sitting down, and plunged into the subject not of Charles-Henri and Roxy but of Giles Wheating, the Englishman I’d met. She was madly in love with him.

“It is not at all true, what you hear,” she confided, smoking madly. “Englishmen are as—considerate—as Frenchmen.”

I have the impression that French people will tell an American things they wouldn’t tell each other. Among themselves, a certain set of conventions obtains, a certain competitive mistrust, real-life reticences from which we are exempted by our cheerful barbarousness. On the other hand, there are French things—certain instances of misbehavior, certain sins and breaches, things about sex or money—they wouldn’t tell us, but talk about readily among themselves, preferring us to have a better opinion of the French than if we knew. Sometimes these are things that wouldn’t bother us at all. For instance, once on a Sunday at Suzanne’s house near Chartres the plumbing backed up, and a French lunch guest was allowed to see and advise on this disaster, whereas Roxy and I were forbidden to come near it.

“I’ve never heard anything—against—about Englishmen,” I said to Charlotte.

“You often hear they are rather—selfish—in bed, but it isn’t true.”

“Well, perhaps some are,” I said, thinking it was unlikely you could generalize.

“They are better than French men, in a certain way,” she went on, her voice lowered confidentially, and though I longed to say “really? how?” it seemed too prying, even for an American. Janet Hollingsworth would have asked straight out.

“The ones that are interested in women at all,” she added.

It is an interesting subject, French men, English men. Actually, from the reputation of Charles Boyer and so on, I had thought there were perhaps unusual things that Frenchmen knew, had expected something unusual and extra, perhaps to do with “The French they are a funny race,” as Chester’s rhyme went. My actual researches had led me to think, however, that there is a Franco-American norm, or a universal Western norm,
to lovemaking. I know nothing of the Orient, or Pacific Islands, though I once read an interesting article about how Samoan men are not up to standard. The article revealed that the female orgasm is unknown in Samoa, that supposed paradise of sexual liberation, and Margaret Mead had not noticed this or she had not thought it important.

Why was I thinking about Samoan men while talking to Charlotte? She was saying something important. “I think Roxeanne ought to divorce Charles-Henri for cause,” she confided, coming, perhaps, to the real reason for our visit. “If she doesn’t, she’ll end up with nothing. The laws here are very severe. I am not the only one to say so. I have been looking into it. She ought to accuse him of adultery and make him pay what he should.”

I understood that Charlotte was telling me, perhaps from the whole Persand family, what I should go tell Roxy—that they recognized that Roxy had been wronged; that they would not oppose generous financial arrangments for her and the children. I thought it was nice of Charlotte to tip me off like this, and to feel that way. I wondered what oncle Edgar’s take on it all would turn out to be.

“What does your mother think?” I wondered to Charlotte. I had noticed that Suzanne was helpful and sympathetic to Roxy, but also loyal to her son, and chose her words when talking to Roxy about arrangements.

“Well, of course she still thinks Roxeanne should just be patient and it will all be finished with. Mother expects Charles-Henri to come to his senses.”

The important thing in the divorce is what follows.

—Hervé Bazin
, Madame Ex

I
DUTIFULLY RELAYED
all this to Roxy. When she had got over the shock of her first legal consultation, she had begun to see that she should at least discuss divorce with a lawyer of her own. We set about finding one who understood French law but would be sympathetic to Americans. After much consultation among the American community, the choice fell upon Maître Bertram, a French-American with the California firm of Biggs, Rigby, Denby, Fox, with offices tucked into a beautiful
hôtel particulier
in the eighth Arrondissement. Roxy went to consult him. Maître Bertram listened to her gravely. She could not really explain what had gone wrong.

“The reason I ask is that you have a choice, whether to accuse your husband of adultery or cruelty, or whether you wish an amicable divorce. No-fault, I believe they call it in the States. I do not judge. It is not my part, obviously.”

“I know I don’t want acrimony or anger,” Roxy said, feeling her anger swell, the emotion bringing tears that pressed against her eyelids. “I don’t even want a divorce. I want to prevent divorce.”

“Who wishes to divorce?”

“The divorce is his idea, he wants to remarry,” Roxy said.

“Wait until he appreciates the financial implications,” predicted Maître Bertram. “I have found that people often change their minds. In the case of a divorce, however, it would be necessary for you to accuse him if you expect to receive a settlement, that is the law. You have to prove fault with his admitting it, or with his lack of contest. You were married in the traditional regime, community property, so in any case, there will arise the matter of distribution of the property.”

“Oh, we don’t have anything,” Roxy assured him. “The apartment, some pots and pans.”

“The usual way is to sell assets that cannot be divided. You expect your husband to contest the divorce? Do you plan to sue to retain your name?”

“My maiden name?”

“Your married name, Persand, Madame de Persand. Ordinarily you would have to take again your
nom de jeune fille
. That would be obligatory.”

“But my children . . . ?”

“Persand, of course.”

“I must have the same name as my children,” said Roxy passionately. Maître Bertram was charmed by her beauty, her womanly despair, her fierce resolution on behalf of her children. He imagined the cad Charles-Henri, some kind of madman.

Families, family loyalties. My brother Roger—my natural brother—is a partner (at such a young age!) in Barney, Gehegan, Bryer and Walker, a San Francisco law firm specializing in real estate and taxes. He’s married to Jane, a Jungian therapist, and they have a child, Fritz, who in spite of the law that governs the children of psychologists is a nice little kid, about six.

Besides his practice, and obsessive jogging, Roger is active in gun control issues, ever since a lone gunman entered his building at 101 California in San Francisco and gunned down fourteen lawyers and clients only two floors below his. What surprised him, he said, was that when people heard about the massacre, they at first were appalled, but then very quickly, seeking as one
does cosmic explanations for tragedy on this scale, explained it to themselves by saying, with the radiance of sudden comprehension, “Ah, but they were lawyers.”

“In the same tone as they would say, ‘After all, they were only dogs,’ ” Roger said. He had never thought of himself as a member of an undesirable social category, and he was shocked. “I knew they hated lawyers, but I didn’t know how much,” he said, a note of self-pity in his voice. I would have thought that besides gun control, it might be appropriate to work, through the bar association or something, to improve the public perception, and maybe even the actual ethics, of lawyers. But that has not occurred to him.

Every few months, Jane and Roger fly down to spend the weekend in Santa Barbara with Margeeve and Chester. Jane and Roger usually stay in the Miramar Hotel nearby, and Fritz stays with his grandparents. Imagine a palm-lined street of adobe houses with rust-colored tile roofs, and the sound of the ocean behind the street noises, and seagulls, and their raucous cries, a smell in the air of flowers and salt and tortilla-frying oil. Santa Barbara is more beautiful than Miami, Ohio, and more dignified than its smoggy neighbor Los Angeles. It likes to think of itself as embodying discretion and old money, in Spanish-style houses, some very beautiful, behind thick adobe walls and fanciful wrought-ironwork. There is, also, a large population of Mexicans who speak no English and are rarely seen on
Santa Barbara
.

When our father and Roger and I moved to Santa Barbara, at the time of his marriage to Margeeve, whom he had met on a Sierra Club hiking trip (much as Roxy would later meet Charles-Henri), I thought it was paradise, the epitome of human privilege and attainment. The tropical charm of the lightly swaying palms, the historical resonance of the Mexican-style architecture (overtones of grandeur and connectedness to human history, reassuringly affirming that there had been a past), culture (an art museum, a preservation committee, a civic symphony, and only two hours on the freeway to the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in Los Angeles, where plays are performed and visiting opera companies visit). Even the oil platforms offshore had, at night, a certain allure, like distant sin islands. I loved the damp, salty wind.
The conventionality of Santa Barbara was reassuring to my midwestern heart. At the same time, I was drawn to the dark maids and gardeners lingering at bus stops, and the boys and drugs in high school. I even loved the orthodontia, so relatively rare in Ohio, so obligatory in California. Paradoxically, where I was wild(ish), my new stepsister, Roxy, having lived her whole life in Santa Barbara, was a perfect midwestern girl, sensible and studious, grounded and sound.

Family dinner at home is easy enough to reconstruct. The discussion would be about Roger’s work, Chester’s work, and Roxy.

My father, Chester the midwesterner, clings to what he imagines are California ways by barbecuing long after real Californians have given it up because of fears of the stomach cancers that afflict cultures that cook over charcoal fires. Indeed, Californians have pretty much given up meat. The carnivorousness of the French shocked me at first.

“Really too bad about Roxy,” says Jane, whose concern about the emotional adjustments and maladjustments of our family is always a little suspect, tinged ever so slightly with self-satisfaction. “Are they getting some help?”

“He says he’s incurably in love with someone else,” says Margeeve. “He wants a divorce.” Her tone held just an edge of mockery, as if she had said “he believes in God,” or “goes to church.”

“I thought you couldn’t get a divorce in France,” says Roger.

“That’s Ireland,” says Chester.

“Oh. How long does it take in France?”

“I have no idea,” says Chester. “A year? When’s the baby due?”

“Not till December,” says Margeeve.

“All that and Isabel on her hands too. Roxy has a lot on her plate,” says Roger, who is always sympathetic to his stepsister Roxy and doesn’t understand me at all.

“I think it’s lucky Isabel is there, in a way. She’s bound to be a little moral support,” says Margeeve. (Here I can imagine them groaning and rolling their eyes.)

“Roxy needs counsel. She should have an American lawyer, there are some good people in France, I’ll get a name.”

“Is she seeing somebody?” asks Jane.

“I shouldn’t think so, she’s six months pregnant, after all,” says Margeeve.

“I meant, a therapist. Someone to help her through it.” In her métier, Jane naturally believes in human perfectability.

Chester goes outside to bring in the chicken breasts.

“We have a policy or strategy decision to make, in a way,” Margeeve goes on. “Or a philosophical decision: how do we actually stand on this?”

“What kind of question is that? What does it have to do with us?” says Roger piously.

“In our hearts, do we hope she stays with Charles-Henri?” It was clear that Margeeve was torn on this question, or she wouldn’t have polled the others. Chester, coming in, hears, frowns.

“I don’t see anything wrong with Charles-Henri. I don’t see a role for our opinions anyhow. Roxy should have the husband she wants. You just wish she lived in California.”

“Oh, that’s it, I know. Part of me thinks, great, Roxy will be coming back. Gennie. The baby. Part of me thinks it is swell to have grandchildren who live ten thousand miles away and don’t even speak English.”

“Why don’t you spend some time over there? Lots of people would be thrilled to have the excuse of grandchildren in France. Besides, Gennie knows English. Roxy speaks English to her.”

“It’s too bad not to see more of Gennie, and little X when she arrives,” Margeeve persisted.

“Not a good reason to hope Roxy breaks up with their father, though,” Chester said. “Besides, we’d probably have to support them.”

Margeeve looks sharply at Chester to see if he’s kidding. He’s not.

“I do think we should offer to pay for counseling,” she says. “I suppose they have qualified professionals in France. Do you know anyone, Jane?”

“They’re all Lacanians,” says Jane, doubtfully.

“Did you realize that Roxy’s Saint Ursula might be rather valuable?” says Margeeve, to change the subject. “At least in the immediate context of the show the Getty is organizing,
Source of Light: the School of La Tour
. Paintings from that period where the subject is illuminated by a light source within the picture, rather than—you might think of Vermeer—from a window, or from a light source out of the canvas.”

“The Getty wants Saint Ursula?” repeats Roger.

“Just on loan. Isabel could bring it to California when she comes home.”

“The Getty could certainly pay to crate it and ship it,” Chester said. “And insure it.”

“Why do you call it
Roxy’s
Saint Ursula?” asks Roger. An ominous question, as it proves.

After dinner, Chester goes out to the patio to clean the barbecue, a ritual he strangely likes. Working without tools as he does in daily life, he likes these, his long-tined fork, the heavy workman’s leather-palmed gloves, and the wire-bristled brush he uses to scrape the bits of chicken and fish (formerly, steak) off the grill. He likes the smell of charcoal and lighter and grease. He is thinking about Roxy, his stepchild who is closer to him than either Isabel or Roger, his natural children. Some unspoken sympathy has always existed between him and Roxy. Her childhood scrapes had been the kind he got in himself, her reactions and deep seriousness were more like his, while Isabel, so restless and thoughtless, puzzled him. Even her talent for sports puzzled him. And Roger? Roger was like a form of his own worst side, aggressive and insensitive. Both his own children were; it was funny, they must have got it from Andrea, their disaster of a mother, for he himself was thoughtful and calm.

Now he felt uneasy about the future for Roxy. He didn’t want her to be defeated by this divorce. Anyone could divorce, most people did, but most people, by the time they did divorce, devoutly wanted to be rid of the other person, the person they cannot imagine having loved and slept with, whose repulsive traits are now an embarrassment, reflecting as they do one’s own bad judgment, immaturity, or star-crossed role as one of nature’s
victims. Roxy, from her tone, was being torn, uprooted, insulted, battered in her heart by the one-sided death of love. She might not recover. He didn’t know what to do for her, short of throttling the frog prince.