The Visiting Privilege by Joy Williams Page A

Anderson’s fur when he had been rained upon. There were smells that could make you follow them, certainly.
    Jane stared at the woman, tipping forward slightly in her seat.
    “Relax, will you, Crystal, you’re just a child. You don’t even
have
a smell yet,” the woman said. “I test all sorts of things. Sometimes I’m part of a control group and sometimes I’m not. You never know. If you’re part of the control group, you’re just given a placebo. A placebo, Crystal, is something that is nothing, but you don’t know it’s nothing. You think you’re getting something that will change you or make you feel better or healthier or more attractive or something, but you’re not really.”
    “I know what a placebo is,” Jane muttered.
    “Well that’s terrific, Crystal, you’re a prodigy.” The woman removed a book from her handbag and began to read it. The book had a denim jacket on it that concealed its title.
    “Ha!” Jane said, rising quickly and attempting to knock over a glass of water. “My name’s not Crystal!”
    Dan grabbed the glass before it fell and hurried after her. They returned to the Starlight Lounge. Mr. Muirhead was sitting with another young man. This one had a blond beard and a studious manner.
    “Oh, this is a wonderful trip!” Mr. Muirhead said exuberantly. “The wonderful people you meet on a trip like this! This is the most fascinating young man. He’s a writer. Been everywhere. He’s putting together a book on cemeteries of the world. Isn’t that some subject? I told him anytime he’s in our town, stop by our restaurant, be my guest for some stone crab claws.”
    “Hullo,” the young man said to the girls.
    “We were speaking of Père-Lachaise, the legendary Parisian cemetery,” Mr. Muirhead said. “So wistful. So grand and romantic. Your mother and I visited it, Jane, when we were in Paris. We strolled through it on a clear crisp autumn day. The desires of the human heart have no boundaries, girls. The mess of secrets in the human heart are without number. Witnessing Père-Lachaise was a very moving experience. As we strolled, your mother was screaming at me, Jane. Do you know why, honeybunch? She was screaming at me because back in New York, I had garaged the car at the place on East Eighty-Fourth Street. Your mother said that the people in the place on East Eighty-Fourth Street never turned the ignition all the way off to the left and were always running down the battery. She said there wasn’t a soul in all of New York City who didn’t know that the people running the garage on East Eighty-Fourth Street were idiots who were always ruining batteries. Before Père-Lachaise, girls, this young man and I were discussing the Pantheón, just outside of Guanajuato in Mexico. It so happens that I am also familiar with the Pantheón. Your mother wanted some tiles for the foyer so we went to Mexico. You stayed with Mrs. Murphy, Jane. Remember? It was Mrs. Murphy who taught you how to make egg salad. In any case, the Pantheón is a walled cemetery, not unlike the Campo Santo in Genoa, Italy, but the reason everybody goes there is to see the mummies. Something about the exceptionally dry air in the mountains has preserved the bodies and there’s a little museum of mummies. It’s grotesque, of course, and it certainly gave me pause. I mean it’s one thing to think we will all gather together in a paradise of fadeless splendor like your grandma thinks, lamby-lettuce, and it’s another thing to think as the Buddhists do that latent possibilities withdraw into the heart at death but do not perish, thereby allowing the being to be reborn, and it’s one more thing, even, to believe like a goddamn scientist in one of the essential laws of physics which states that no energy is ever lost. It’s one thing to think any of those things, girls, but it’s quite another to be standing in that little museum looking at those miserable mummies. The horror and indignation were in their