The Laments (7 page)

Julia noticed another figure standing alone, a brunette wearing a clingy electric-pink dress that displayed her long neck, formidable cleavage, and defiant smile. Her hair was teased to approximate a tidal wave. Matisse couldn’t have produced a paler, more arch composition for a face—chalky skin, rich red lips, Kabuki eyebrows. But there was nothing invisible about the woman in the pink dress. She was watched by all—by the wives with their pursed, aching smiles, and by their husbands, whose eyes rolled with carnal yearning. There was no mistaking it: she was a goddess.

Julia introduced herself. “How do you do? I’m Julia Lament!”

“Trixie,” came the reply in a low, whiskey rasp. “Howitzer.”

Almost immediately, Julia was offered a glass of champagne by a waiter, and a platter of hors d’oeuvres hovered within reach for the first time. “What a wonderful dress,” said Julia, in gratitude for Trixie’s magnetic effect on the staff.

“Thanks,” Trixie growled. “The way people are looking at me, I feel naked.”

Noting the wishful expressions of some of the executives, Julia guessed Trixie’s comment wasn’t far from the truth. “Well,” Julia replied, “it’s nice not to be the only one here without a husband.”

Trixie nodded. “I thought I’d just pop in for a bourbon, but there’s nothing but champagne and punch.” As if to console herself, Trixie downed her champagne in stiff gulps, as if it
were
a bourbon.

Trixie was married to an American executive, Chip Howitzer, who had been running Dutch Oil’s holdings in Houston, Texas, until recently. She had a son about Will’s age. When Julia proposed a lunch to get to know each other, Trixie consented, but only after warning Julia that she rarely got up that early; indeed, some days she
never
got up. This reinforced Julia’s hunch that Trixie was not only a rebel but quite possibly the very sort of mistress of destruction that Mrs. Urquhart found wandering rampant through the plays of Mr. William Shakespeare.

BY THREE, WILL HAD BECOME
a gentle and observant child. His possessive fits and tantrums had faded, though he rarely smiled and never laughed. When Julia left to meet her new American friend, he didn’t whimper, but waved good-bye from the balcony of their apartment in the arms of Uda, who was determined to prove her worth to Julia by completing Will’s toilet training. Twenty minutes couldn’t pass without the woman pulling down his pants and sticking him on the plastic potty; he could only conclude that she needed his urine for some urgent purpose. Since Uda frequently augmented her own kitchen with items from Julia’s cupboards, Will supposed that the amber liquid in the vinegar bottle she slipped in her bag one afternoon contained his pee. When she left with other vessels—wine bottles, olive oil—he made the same assumption.

Julia and Trixie met for a late tea at the Manhattan Club, an old restaurant of ornate plasterwork and aged green tile, American only in name. Chicken and goat meat sizzled on a blackened grill, but they did serve alcohol for the desperate Westerners. Julia had tea; Trixie kept her dark glasses on, ordered a double scotch, and asked only one question.

“What
are
you?”

“What
am
I?” repeated Julia.

“English? Australian? Your accent . . .”

“Oh—South African,” explained Julia. “I grew up there, and moved to Southern Rhodesia to teach and paint. My family’s English and Irish. Of course, I’ve never been to England, though I’d love to go. But all my ancestors hail from there, and we think of England as the mother country.”

It all came out in a tumble. Something in Trixie’s manner inspired Julia to talk, to spill out stories about her school days and family, until, finally, Trixie raised her sunglasses to reveal a swollen and purple eye the size and luster of a ripe plum. Julia’s mouth dropped in surprise. Yet Trixie seemed to relish its impact, leading Julia to wonder what awful thing she had done to her opponent to earn it.

Trixie smirked. “What’s the matter, haven’t you ever seen a shiner before?”

“Not like that,” gulped Julia.

“Well, if you’re gonna get one, it might as well be enormous,” Trixie declared casually, as if black eyes were like diamonds, or cars, or ranches.

“Well, I hope it was an accident,” Julia replied.

Trixie replaced her sunglasses and dismissed the matter by ordering her second scotch. Just then, a group of Dutch Oil’s English wives, led by Mrs. McCross, entered and took a distant table. “Oh God,” said Trixie, “here come the redcoats.”

“Well, hello, Julia dear!” chirped Mrs. McCross, who approached.

“Have you met Trixie Howitzer, Mrs. McCross?”

Mrs. McCross’s features drew together like a string purse at the sight of Julia’s companion. She assumed the most feral of smiles, her front teeth bared. “I have. How are you, dear?” she inquired.

“Never better,” said Trixie in the manner of a cat that had eaten a mouse’s young. With unusual speed, Mrs. McCross excused herself and retreated to her table.

“I was naughty,” Trixie explained. “She invited us to dinner a year ago, and I just got damn tired of listening to her talk. So I put my hand on her husband’s knee.” Trixie demonstrated by caressing the top of Julia’s tea glass. “That shut her up.”

Julia laughed, eliciting pinched stares from Mrs. McCross’s group.

That evening, Julia told Howard about the incident, as well as Trixie’s black eye and her blunt manner.

“She sounds awful,” remarked Howard.

“No, darling, she’s absolutely fascinating,” Julia replied. “You’ll see. I’ve invited the Howitzers over for dinner this weekend!”

ON SATURDAY WILL GREW CONCERNED
that the urine in his potty was not being removed by Uda, so he took the liberty of pouring it into the carafe of olive oil to be served to the Laments’ guests that evening.

Chip Howitzer was a bullnecked fellow of forty-five with no jawline and a perfectly flat blond buzz cut bordered by fiercely dark and bushy eyebrows. By contrast, his son, Wayne, was pasty-faced, with small resentful eyes and a petulant rose of a mouth; he wore a red bandanna around his neck, and a leather vest. In one hand he held a plastic rifle.

“Ride ’em, cowboy.” Trixie laughed. “Isn’t he cute? I can’t resist dressing him up.”

No sooner had the boys been left alone than Wayne kneecapped Will with the butt of his rifle. It wasn’t until Will reciprocated with a wooden polo mallet that the boys established a truce and proceeded to play in opposing corners of the bedroom.

In the living room, after his first glass of bourbon, Chip made a frank confession. “I like you, Howard, and I don’t usually like foreigners.” Howard hadn’t said much more than a hello at this point, but Chip insisted, “We’re gonna be friends.”

“We haven’t been invited anywhere since that dreadful dinner with the McCrosses,” explained Trixie with a wink at Julia.

“It’s hard to make friends, isn’t it?” agreed Howard affably. After watching Chip survey the armchairs, pick the most comfortable one, put up his feet, and close his eyes, Howard wondered if Chip was going to make up for three friendless years by spending the night there.

“You know, Howard,” said Chip, his eyes still closed, “back in the States we have an Irish Catholic in the Senate. Some people think he’ll be our next president. Imagine that!” He sighed. “There was a time when an Irishman was treated like a Negro in the States.”

“Imagine that, yes,” echoed Howard, catching Julia’s sharp glance. They had an unspoken agreement: they might indulge the opinions of guests, but they never tolerated bigotry.

“Now, you South Africans still have a good grip on the race situation.” Chip grinned.

Trixie leaned over and slapped Chip’s arm. “My husband, the bigot,” she said with the expression of a wife whose husband arrives with a cold and proceeds to sneeze on the hosts. Judging from Chip’s muted reaction, Julia guessed that slapping was common in their house. They obviously weren’t called the Howitzers for nothing.

“I haven’t said anything wrong, have I?” murmured Chip, winking at Howard as if they were long-lost Masonic brothers.

“Actually,” said Julia, “we’re both against apartheid and the things that go with it—racism, paternalism; that’s partly why we left.”

“Oh, it’s pretty barbaric here, wouldn’t you say?” Chip said.

“But it’s not one race being barbaric to another,” Howard replied.

“What’s the difference? A guy can get his arm cut off for stealing a loaf of bread.”

“And husbands can beat their wives for no reason at all,” replied Julia, deciding that Chip was something of a brute.

Chip caught her glance and took another belt of his bourbon for support, while Trixie, amused that Julia had spooked her husband, adjusted her dark glasses and smiled.

Suddenly Chip turned to Howard. “Did you know that Trixie and I have a
mixed marriag
e
?”

“Really?” replied Howard.

“Sure. I’m a Polack and she’s a plantation princess.”

“I
never
lived on a plantation,” snapped Trixie.

“Well, you were from down south, a regular green-eyed Florida beauty, riding bareback on the beach,” Chip mused. “I had to buy that horse to get her to marry me,” he told Howard.

“I miss that damn horse,” Trixie said wistfully. She noticed her husband sniffing the carafe of olive oil. Chip poured a small quantity of the emerald liquid onto a wedge of bread, and savored it. Meanwhile, Julia noticed that Howard was staring at Trixie much as the English husbands had at the Christmas party, and she felt a pang of disappointment in him.

“Say,” said Chip. “I love this bread!”

Trixie took the crust from his hand and tasted it.

“It’s not the bread, honey, it’s the olive oil. It’s fabulous! Tangy!”

The Laments sent the Howitzers home with the olive oil, and they made emphatic promises to get together again soon, though Howard tolerated Chip’s drunken farewell hug with reluctance.

“
DO YOU THINK SHE’S PRETTY?
” asked Julia.

They were in bed, with the lights out, for the postmortem. It was a cool night; the bedroom windows were open, and a faint voice chanted the Salat al-Maghrib over the city rooftops as the last red tinge faded on the horizon.

“Not really,” Howard replied. When Julia didn’t respond, he sensed his mistake. “Well,” he stammered, “perhaps she’s pretty in an American sort of way.”

“Just say what you mean, Howard,” said Julia in a faint voice, and Howard realized his blunder. It was a mistake to lie about Trixie Howitzer; her beauty was obvious. So he tried to make up for it as well as he could.

“Darling, I mean she seems gorgeous, but she’d probably scare the life out of anyone who saw her without her makeup. . . . You’ve never needed makeup to look pretty.”

“You’re just saying that.”

“No,” he insisted. “I mean it, honestly.”

Julia’s hand sought his under the sheets, and they reconciled. Nevertheless, Howard blamed the Howitzers for making the Laments feel vulnerable and, worse, plain.

JULIA, HOWEVER, WAS DELIGHTED
to have found a more amusing friend than Mrs. McCross. A few days later, she invited Trixie to go shopping with her in the medina.

“I’m not the dusty, rustic type, Julia. Couldn’t we find a museum or something?”

“But this is Arabia!” Julia said, spurred by Trixie’s timidity to show off her own adventurous spirit. Thus, Julia led her dubious companion into the bustling heart of the old city, through hawkers, merchants, and clamoring children, until several handsome young men with eager smiles offered their services as guides. Suddenly Trixie’s interest perked up.

“Julia, don’t we need to hire one of these gorgeous young men?”

“Not really,” Julia assured her. “I know
all
the sights.”

“I’m sure you do,” Trixie replied, “but why can’t we bring one along with us anyway?”

“Because he’ll spend the afternoon steering us to his uncle, who happens to sell rugs,” explained Julia. “And the minute we get there,
he’ll
disappear and his uncle won’t let us leave until we’ve had tea and bought something we don’t really want!”

Through the labyrinth they went, Trixie wobbling in her high heels while repeating an ardent wish for a bourbon. At one point they passed the Manhattan Club but did not dare go in for fear of encountering the English wives.

Julia steered Trixie farther into the medina until they found another little café. Elderly men, bearded and skullcapped, whispered at a corner table. The women pierced this sanctuary with their wide hats and exposed faces and relaxed at a table, until the old men stopped talking and stared at them.

“They don’t want us here,” murmured Trixie.

“Tough luck,” replied Julia. “Our money’s good.”

Two of the elderly men started yammering and gesticulating to the man behind the counter. “Let’s go,” said Trixie.

“Because we’re women?” asked Julia.

“Because I want a bourbon,” Trixie replied.

By this time the owner had quieted the men; slinging a napkin over his shoulder, he made his way to their table and uttered a few words in Arabic.

“Sorry,” said Julia.
“Parlez-vous françai
s
?”
But the owner only repeated his Arabic more harshly. The women were preparing to leave when a voice interrupted.

“Madam, so nice to see you again!” It was the man with the white suit. He turned and tipped his hat to Trixie, and took it upon himself to speak a few placating words to the owner. “He says women are not welcome without a male escort”—the gentleman grinned—“but I have solved the problem, as you can see.”

Julia felt the most awful blush come over her face. “Actually, we were just leaving.”

“
I’m
not leaving yet,” remarked Trixie, drinking down the sight of this man with obvious pleasure.

“You wanted a bourbon,” Julia reminded her.

Trixie smiled. “I’m not thirsty anymore.”

The gentleman wasted no time introducing himself. His name was Mubarez; he was a Saudi businessman, dealing in professional kitchenware. Julia ignored the business card he offered her, but Trixie claimed it for her own.