mentioned in public.
Neither Etienne nor any of the waiters seemed to be about, so she fished the vichyssoise and artichoke hearts from her coat pockets. “I’ve come prepared!” she said, and laughed gaily. “Isn’t it terrible, the mess everything’s in?”
Irene said nothing. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling very talkative.
“Really, I’ve been so worried that you’d be angry at me for missing last Wednesday. But the phones are impossible. I couldn’t call. So I just had to trust your good nature. Youdon’t mind it that I brought Nicky, do you? He’s being so good. I’m afraid his sitter didn’t come today. Really, you’re not angry, are you?”
Still, Irene said nothing. Marion felt suddenly breathless and warm, as if she might burst into tears any moment. How odd. There was nothing to cry about, after all. She glanced at the wavering shadows the candles cast on the walls and shut her eyes against an inexplicable flood of panic.
“Here. Here,” she said. “There’s not enough light, don’t you think?” And she hurried around to the other tables, gathering up all the candles she could find. She set them in front of Irene and lit each one carefully.
Still, Irene did not speak.
It was then that Marion saw the scene in the mirror. The entire north wall of Chez Etienne was lined with mirror glass; it made the room seem larger, Etienne had told them once, passing the time of day while a waiter twisted the pepper mill over their salads. Now, amid chaos and destruction, the mirror remained perversely intact. Reflected in it, Marion saw first a brilliant cluster of candle flames in the center of a table. She didn’t recognize the woman who stood by the table, a filthy hag who regarded her with a faint smile and bright, demented eyes—a bag lady, she thought, who must have wandered away from her home in the city subway tunnels. Beside her sat two people who, Marion slowly realized, were actually corpses in varying degrees of decomposition. One was that of a small child, the other that of a lady who had once been stylishly dressed.
Marion felt a sudden rush of warmth and pity for the bag lady. “Oh, my dear,” she said, leaning forward.
“Oh, my dear,” said the woman in the mirror, leaning forward at precisely the same moment.
Marion blinked and shuddered. A tiny whimper escaped from her throat. Not wanting to, not wanting to at all, Marion began to remember in vivid detail exactly why she had missed last week’s lunch at Etienne’s.
“No,” she cried, staring into Etienne’s mirror. “No, no, no!”
Marion Cumberly, who had never done such a thing in her life, picked up a chair and threw it into the mirror. Shards of glass flew sparkling into the air, and in their place appeared a wall of blessed, empty shadow.
Marion smiled. “Shall we have some vichyssoise, Irene, dear?” she said. “I’m not sure whether Nicky will like it. He’s never tried it before.”
And with a flourish, she produced the can opener from the pocket of her coat.
THE SAILOR’S BARGAIN
I am whimpering in my sleep again. Across the abyss between our beds, I hear my friend Mary Fairfax calling my name.
“Electra. Electra! Wake up.”
But I can’t seem to separate her voice from the cobweb fabric of the dream. Neither can I separate the roar of the wind from the roar of my own blood, or tell which is real and which imagined.
“Wake up!”
Fairfax crosses the dark room, grabs my shoulders. In my dream, I kneel on the rain-swept deck of a wooden ship, a ship with many sails,huge and dark. Waves crash over the bow, and the masts groan as if they are about to splinter. In my dream, the wind shakes me until my teeth clack. It tears at me, and it laughs, and it says,
A bargain is a bargain, part and parcel
.
Then I realize that the bow of the ship is really the chapel of the orphanage in San Francisco where I grew up. I am taking part in the celebration of some skewed Mass. A canticle response rises to my lips.
Neither Etienne nor any of the waiters seemed to be about, so she fished the vichyssoise and artichoke hearts from her coat pockets. “I’ve come prepared!” she said, and laughed gaily. “Isn’t it terrible, the mess everything’s in?”
Irene said nothing. Perhaps she wasn’t feeling very talkative.
“Really, I’ve been so worried that you’d be angry at me for missing last Wednesday. But the phones are impossible. I couldn’t call. So I just had to trust your good nature. Youdon’t mind it that I brought Nicky, do you? He’s being so good. I’m afraid his sitter didn’t come today. Really, you’re not angry, are you?”
Still, Irene said nothing. Marion felt suddenly breathless and warm, as if she might burst into tears any moment. How odd. There was nothing to cry about, after all. She glanced at the wavering shadows the candles cast on the walls and shut her eyes against an inexplicable flood of panic.
“Here. Here,” she said. “There’s not enough light, don’t you think?” And she hurried around to the other tables, gathering up all the candles she could find. She set them in front of Irene and lit each one carefully.
Still, Irene did not speak.
It was then that Marion saw the scene in the mirror. The entire north wall of Chez Etienne was lined with mirror glass; it made the room seem larger, Etienne had told them once, passing the time of day while a waiter twisted the pepper mill over their salads. Now, amid chaos and destruction, the mirror remained perversely intact. Reflected in it, Marion saw first a brilliant cluster of candle flames in the center of a table. She didn’t recognize the woman who stood by the table, a filthy hag who regarded her with a faint smile and bright, demented eyes—a bag lady, she thought, who must have wandered away from her home in the city subway tunnels. Beside her sat two people who, Marion slowly realized, were actually corpses in varying degrees of decomposition. One was that of a small child, the other that of a lady who had once been stylishly dressed.
Marion felt a sudden rush of warmth and pity for the bag lady. “Oh, my dear,” she said, leaning forward.
“Oh, my dear,” said the woman in the mirror, leaning forward at precisely the same moment.
Marion blinked and shuddered. A tiny whimper escaped from her throat. Not wanting to, not wanting to at all, Marion began to remember in vivid detail exactly why she had missed last week’s lunch at Etienne’s.
“No,” she cried, staring into Etienne’s mirror. “No, no, no!”
Marion Cumberly, who had never done such a thing in her life, picked up a chair and threw it into the mirror. Shards of glass flew sparkling into the air, and in their place appeared a wall of blessed, empty shadow.
Marion smiled. “Shall we have some vichyssoise, Irene, dear?” she said. “I’m not sure whether Nicky will like it. He’s never tried it before.”
And with a flourish, she produced the can opener from the pocket of her coat.
THE SAILOR’S BARGAIN
I am whimpering in my sleep again. Across the abyss between our beds, I hear my friend Mary Fairfax calling my name.
“Electra. Electra! Wake up.”
But I can’t seem to separate her voice from the cobweb fabric of the dream. Neither can I separate the roar of the wind from the roar of my own blood, or tell which is real and which imagined.
“Wake up!”
Fairfax crosses the dark room, grabs my shoulders. In my dream, I kneel on the rain-swept deck of a wooden ship, a ship with many sails,huge and dark. Waves crash over the bow, and the masts groan as if they are about to splinter. In my dream, the wind shakes me until my teeth clack. It tears at me, and it laughs, and it says,
A bargain is a bargain, part and parcel
.
Then I realize that the bow of the ship is really the chapel of the orphanage in San Francisco where I grew up. I am taking part in the celebration of some skewed Mass. A canticle response rises to my lips.
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