The Widow’s Children. Paula Fox

mocked Laura loudly. “Do you like my smile, Peter? I’m a primitive.”

      Clara spoke, her voice tremulous. “What about the creatures that slink around this city, who kill without a flicker of pity? They smile too. Is that what you mean?”

      “How would you know, kiddo?” asked Desmond.

      Peter took hold of Clara’s hand. It was damp. Gradually, the fingers he was holding closed around his own. “I didn’t mean not human,” he said. “Really, I had something else in mind. Innocence … before the fall, all that …”

      He was very faintly repelled by the closeness, the intertwining of their fingers, their palms lightly sweating one against the other. Yet how unconsciously, how touchingly her hand had curled around his! But that was enough. He let go of her and stepped away. What had he roused up in her with his “primitive smile” routine? He was so used to his own set pieces that he didn’t even bother to listen to himself anymore. But this time, he’d done it. The girl looked on the verge of tears. He had simply been keeping the conversation moving along. He glanced quickly at Laura. And all at once it was borne in upon him powerfully that she was really the girl’s mother, that there was something here he had not known about before, had never speculated about, something singular.

      “You’re so passionate,” murmured Laura to Clara. She swung her legs off the bed, and the box of dresses tumbled to the floor. Clara went to pick them up, and as she replaced them on the foot of the bed, her mother gave her a broad, rather lewd, wink. Clara laughed and said impulsively, gratefully, “What pretty dresses they are!”

      Grinning, her mother fiddled with her sapphire ring then, suddenly, her hand shot out and she grasped the hem of Clara’s dress and turned it up. Sewn to the seam was a small white silk tag on which was printed the name, Christian Dior. Clara stood frozen as Laura’s fingers gradually released the cloth of her dress. What reasons would ever prevail against the implacable judgment she saw on Laura’s face, which was slowly, slowly turning from her to Peter Rice?

      “More drinks, all? Anyone?” Desmond was holding up a bottle. “Out of ice, darling. Shall I phone for more?” But no one answered him, and he was not surprised. He smiled to himself. He didn’t give a good goddamn for ice, for bored old Carlos sulking near the window like a moth-eaten bear, clutching his cigar – that sack of Spanish guts … dirty, lazy old queen. Christ! Didn’t he know there was a glob of chewing gum stuck to one of his shoes? If they were his shoes. You’d think he sold pencils in Times Square. Desmond didn’t give a goddamn, either, for all that frenzied jabbering going on between Laura and Peter Rice.

      He laughed aloud to think of what Laura would say about them all once they were gone, once she was alone with him, when he wouldn’t have to worry about what she was thinking, of how she was being reminded of the years before. As if he didn’t know that they talked about Ed Hansen the second he, Desmond, was out of sight! What else was there for them to talk about?

      Desmond had met Laura and Ed in Paris years ago, and he’d been dazzled by Ed at first, just like any other fool. Ed had just punched a Frenchman because Laura had said the man looked at her salaciously while the three of them were slowly rising in one of those hotel cage elevators, and he’d thought he would go out of his mind with laughter at Ed’s description of what had happened. “Hit him!” Laura had demanded, and Ed had! And then had picked the poor dazed son of a bitch up from the floor, and dragged him out into a corridor and covered him with some soiled sheets a chambermaid had left in a cart – so he wouldn’t catch his death of cold, Ed had said. That was when Laura was in her late thirties, and Desmond had thought she looked like a slightly bruised dahlia. And Marjorie, his own wife, hadn’t had the slightest idea of how stirred he’d been by Laura, wild to take her to bed, to have her all for himself, to watch her forever, to track down and discover what it was in her nature that led her to such thrilling displays of temperament, those scenes that had so disgusted Marjorie, that had so exhilarated him. Later, Laura had told him that Ed had known all along that Desmond was mad to get her, and how he’d laughed at Desmond. Desmond knew they’d both laughed. He’d never forgive them that.

      He’d known, too, they had a child somewhere, living with the grandmother in Cuba, known the child wouldn’t be a problem for him. Laura wasn’t anybody’s mother. Not like Marjorie, clamping her jaw shut, buttoning up Ellen’s jacket, saying, “I don’t want my child within a thousand miles of that Spanish bitch!” And that hadn’t been much of a problem either. He felt in his pocket suddenly. Where the hell had he put Ellen’s letter? He always answered her letters. Laura didn’t know that. He usually managed to get to the mail before she did, but he’d slipped up this time. He’d send the girl a postcard from Rabat. He might even speak to Peter privately about helping her get a job in publishing. He supposed she had ambitions – silly illusions about literature – an ordinary lawyer’s office not being up to Marjorie’s expectations for “my child!” Desmond said aloud, “Damned right!”

      “I’m sorry, what did you say?” Clara had come over to him and was looking distractedly at the ice bucket, the bottles.

      “Oh, you know …” Desmond said thickly, “the ice … they never bring enough of it … damned hotels.”

      Clara poured some scotch into her glass. “I don’t care about ice.”

      “That’s right.”

      “Your ship must be getting all wet in this rain – the decks, the portholes blurred. When it rains like this, I get the feeling that travel is an illusion. Do you know what I mean?”

      “Oh, now …”

      “It’s hard to imagine there’s a place where it isn’t raining, do you see?”

      I am the only sensible person in this place, he thought, and frowned at her, as though to bring her to her senses. What was she looking so apologetic about? Then, abruptly, Clara left him. Had he told her to shut up? He’d thought it, but God! had he said it?

      The cartoon Clara had gone to look for had disappeared from the bedside table. Had Laura chewed it up and swallowed it? If it had been there, she could have remarked upon it and so begun a new conversation with her mother, one that would release her, for the moment, from the mortification of her lie about the dress. Her squalid lie; the peculiar look of prophecy on her mother’s face, what was she to make of it?

      Her dress was hot against her skin. Peter Rice glanced at her; an impersonal smile touched his lips. She felt she was about to faint, to fall, not from drink or from the warmth of the room, but from a powerful recollection that swept over her so that she seemed to feel the flesh, the limbs, of her lover, Harry Dana, pressing her down, holding her down, the hateful dress abandoned in the corner where she’d dropped it.

      She was suddenly aware of a curious odor. It was, she recalled, that hair treatment her mother used, a kind of tar to rid herself of some minor scalp trouble. She had not realized until that instant that she must have been moving closer and closer to Laura. What an awful haircut she’d gotten herself! Clara sniffed discreetly. There it was again, a black, marshy smell, a touch of petroleum, an ancient ooze, the true elements of that Spanish blood, sangre pura, not a scalp treatment at all! Pure blood! The Spaniards had consumed whole populations of Indians, of Arabs, of black Moors, of Jews. God, how she would like to have been present when her father had said to Laura, “You know, of course, that you’re Sephardic, my queen, don’t you?” At least, so he had told Clara, swearing he’d said it. And he’d shown Clara a little tintype he had stolen from Laura, a photograph of Laura’s father, her own grandfather long dead before she’d been born, a handsome, swarthy, small man dressed in gypsy costume for the sitting, a swaggering, sporty little cock in a rakish caballero hat. “From Cadiz,” Ed had said, “never to be mentioned in front of your Uncle Eugenio!”

      As if she would have mentioned anything to Uncle Eugenio, his own father or his own shoelaces! For there was a man whom “pure blood” had driven crazy, who carried, rolled up in his pocket, photocopies of pages of coats of arms he’d found in genealogical encyclopedias in the library. It was said that Eugenio never touched anyone’s hand – fear of contamination, perhaps.