and Edward's ankle is fishlike. Margaret was struck, suddenly, by how very sexy Lily was. She was a bit blowsy, or so Margaret had always thought. But perhaps it was just that she was voluptuous? Margaret had never had occasion to wonder whether a woman was voluptuous or not, and she was not sure how one judged. She continued to observe Lily carefully, the way she whispered and tucked her feet beneath her on the couch.
Lily caught her watching and looked at Margaret, long and earnestly. Margaret turned back to Edward's familiar ankle, which suddenly looked quite nice after all. Margaret blushed. Did Lily know? Could she tell? That Margaret, tilting her head, had been wondering if Lily was or was not voluptuous?
Two
SONG OF MYSELF 11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides, handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather;
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their
long hair:
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and
bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
—WALT WHITMAN
A T THE AIRPORT, Margaret waited to have her bags x-rayed and thought that when she passed through the metal detector, she would be passing into a new world. She would be on her way to Prague, formerly part of the second world, now reborn. Perhaps she would be reborn.
A little boy ran up to her, grabbed her hand, looked up, realized she was not his mother, and ran away in horror.
"I'm here," she heard a woman call. "I'm right here."
Margaret stepped forward, passed through the metal detector, watched the x-ray of her bag as it rolled along on a conveyor belt. Overlapping round coins, her keys, and several indistinct lumps—she was setting forth naked and alone.
Once on the plane to Paris, where she would spend the night before continuing to Prague, Margaret thought again how sad it was that Edward could not accompany her. No marvelous, heroic Czech Philharmonic together, but Edward had given her a long article about the orchestra to read on the plane as a stand-in for his own attendance and instruction and conversation. Professor Ehrenwerth had to stay home and coddle his students. Which was just as well, Margaret decided, for it was demeaning to have become so dependent on another person, even one as interesting as Edward.
And so Margaret was by herself. With the exception of 150 or so passengers who provided international atmosphere by speaking French or Japanese or richly American dialects of English, she sat unaccompanied on the plane.
If Edward were here, she thought, he would already have discovered that the stewardess was studying in her spare time to be France's first female rabbi, that the 250 other passengers would consume forty-five liters of red wine during the journey, that the five-year-old Japanese girl across the aisle was a violinist who had performed at Carnegie Hall—twice.
But Edward is not here. I am alone. The stewardess probably belongs to Racially Pure Young Women for Le Pen. What if the 250 passengers, having consumed their forty-five liters of wine, become ill simultaneously? The Japanese girl is to be given to an infertile Parisian couple in exchange for a Manet painting.
I am alone.
Dinner came and went. She
Lily caught her watching and looked at Margaret, long and earnestly. Margaret turned back to Edward's familiar ankle, which suddenly looked quite nice after all. Margaret blushed. Did Lily know? Could she tell? That Margaret, tilting her head, had been wondering if Lily was or was not voluptuous?
Two
SONG OF MYSELF 11
Twenty-eight young men bathe by the shore,
Twenty-eight young men and all so friendly;
Twenty-eight years of womanly life and all so lonesome.
She owns the fine house by the rise of the bank,
She hides, handsome and richly drest aft the blinds of the window.
Which of the young men does she like the best?
Ah the homeliest of them is beautiful to her.
Where are you off to, lady? for I see you,
You splash in the water there, yet stay stock still in your room.
Dancing and laughing along the beach came the twenty-ninth
bather;
The rest did not see her, but she saw them and loved them.
The beards of the young men glisten'd with wet, it ran from their
long hair:
Little streams pass'd all over their bodies.
An unseen hand also pass'd over their bodies,
It descended tremblingly from their temples and ribs.
The young men float on their backs, their white bellies bulge to the
sun, they do not ask who seizes fast to them,
They do not know who puffs and declines with pendant and
bending arch,
They do not think whom they souse with spray.
—WALT WHITMAN
A T THE AIRPORT, Margaret waited to have her bags x-rayed and thought that when she passed through the metal detector, she would be passing into a new world. She would be on her way to Prague, formerly part of the second world, now reborn. Perhaps she would be reborn.
A little boy ran up to her, grabbed her hand, looked up, realized she was not his mother, and ran away in horror.
"I'm here," she heard a woman call. "I'm right here."
Margaret stepped forward, passed through the metal detector, watched the x-ray of her bag as it rolled along on a conveyor belt. Overlapping round coins, her keys, and several indistinct lumps—she was setting forth naked and alone.
Once on the plane to Paris, where she would spend the night before continuing to Prague, Margaret thought again how sad it was that Edward could not accompany her. No marvelous, heroic Czech Philharmonic together, but Edward had given her a long article about the orchestra to read on the plane as a stand-in for his own attendance and instruction and conversation. Professor Ehrenwerth had to stay home and coddle his students. Which was just as well, Margaret decided, for it was demeaning to have become so dependent on another person, even one as interesting as Edward.
And so Margaret was by herself. With the exception of 150 or so passengers who provided international atmosphere by speaking French or Japanese or richly American dialects of English, she sat unaccompanied on the plane.
If Edward were here, she thought, he would already have discovered that the stewardess was studying in her spare time to be France's first female rabbi, that the 250 other passengers would consume forty-five liters of red wine during the journey, that the five-year-old Japanese girl across the aisle was a violinist who had performed at Carnegie Hall—twice.
But Edward is not here. I am alone. The stewardess probably belongs to Racially Pure Young Women for Le Pen. What if the 250 passengers, having consumed their forty-five liters of wine, become ill simultaneously? The Japanese girl is to be given to an infertile Parisian couple in exchange for a Manet painting.
I am alone.
Dinner came and went. She
Similar Books
