The Laments, page 6
“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 marriage?”
“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 français?” 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.
“Madam,” he said to Julia, “forgive me if I offended you when we last met.”
“Julia,” said Trixie, intrigued, “what on earth could Mr. Mubarez have done to offend you?”
“Nothing at all,” Julia replied. But the gentleman was clearly smitten with her. When he repeatedly offered to take her sightseeing, Trixie turned petulant:
“Really, Mr. Mubarez, you make a girl feel like an ugly duckling,” she said.
“On the contrary, madam . . .” apologized Mubarez.
“Can you tell fortunes?” she asked, extending a pale arm across the table. Thus challenged, Mubarez took her palm and wove her a silly story about fame, riches, and happiness.
“Now her,” said Trixie, nodding mischievously at Julia.
“I don’t want my fortune told,” Julia protested, but Trixie insisted, and persuaded her to rest her hand in Mr. Mubarez’s. The minute their fingers touched, Julia felt her heart quicken. Mubarez also seemed at a loss for words. With an apology, he released her hand.
Trixie looked fascinated and slightly envious of their exchange. “Well?” she said impatiently. “What’s her future?”
The man looked abashed. “My imagination appears to have failed me,” he replied.
“It’s quite all right, Mr. Mubarez,” said Julia.
Trixie seized this moment to pepper Mr. Mubarez with questions about his life, steering his eyes back to her when they strayed to Julia. Mubarez spoke of his youth, when he sold the fish he caught to the British submarine crews in the Gulf; of how his father sent him to a school for bankers’ children in Jidda; and of how his trade had expanded from tin pots and pans to the stainless-steel equipment sold to restaurants and hotels.
When it was time to go, the women refused his offer of an escort. Julia’s last glimpse of Mr. Mubarez was of his elegant suit, a solitary figure nursing a glass of mint tea.
Trixie and Julia walked back through the medina, sharing the giddy satisfaction of an adventure concluded. “What a dreamboat,” said Trixie. Then she gave Julia a vexed glance. “I’ve never had to work so hard to get a man to look at me.”
Julia smiled at the compliment, and then shame swept over her face. “Oh God, was I flirting?”
“Not exactly,” said Trixie. “I was doing the flirting, not that it did me any good.”
Julia whispered a confession. “He made me tremble.”
Trixie laughed. “You made him tremble too, honey!” Then she noticed Julia’s blush. “Oh, for godsakes, don’t tell me you’re one of those married women who won’t even let herself think of another man!”
Julia reproached her friend. “Trixie, I adore Howard. No other man has ever interested me in the least.”
Trixie laughed. “Sure! But there’s nothing wrong with feeling your heart skip a beat, is there? Just for fun.” She linked her arm with Julia’s. “Honey, both of us know that Howard has nothing to worry about.”
“HOW WAS YOUR DAY?” asked Howard that evening.
“Fine,” Julia replied tersely. She was trying to coax Will to eat a few more bites of chicken, but he scampered across the tiled floor, leaving her crimson-faced in front of her husband.
“Anything wrong?” he asked.
“No, we just wandered through the medina.”
Howard gave his wife a sober glance. “You know, I hear Trixie’s a bit of a flirt. She has something of a reputation in the company. Poor Chip.” Howard shrugged. “Not that he’s any saint, but his wife’s obviously a handful.”
“I don’t like Chip,” Julia said.
“Well, so much for the Howitzers,” sighed Howard, as if they were in accord, and the Americans had been put to rest.
SHE AND HOWARD HAD NEVER DISAGREED about friends before; it was uncertain territory in their marriage. Since Trixie did not call Julia, that might well have been the end of the Howitzers, if Mrs. McCross hadn’t phoned Julia one evening.
“Julia, how are you? How’s little Willy? Are you free for lunch tomorrow?”
“Sorry,” said Julia, tossing several excuses into the explanation, but Mrs. McCross wouldn’t be put off.
“I’ve been meaning to have a word with you, actually, about your friend. I think I speak for a number of concerned souls in saying that your American friend is not of our flock. . . .”
“Our flock?” repeated Julia.
After Mrs. McCross hung up, Julia realized that she wasn’t of the flock, either. Furthermore, her time with Trixie had been the most exciting thing to happen to her in Bahrain.
IN DEFIANCE OF HOWARD’S JUDGMENT on the Howitzers, Julia invited Trixie to go to the beach with the boys. She revealed her plans on the day of the outing.
Howard looked dismayed. “But I thought we didn’t like them.” It was an artful challenge, a matter not of the Howitzers’ character but of Julia’s loyalty. But she had prepared a reply:
“I was thinking of Will, darling. Wayne is the only boy his age. Wouldn’t it be nice for Will to have a friend?”
Howard had to agree.
Will and Wayne took to each other this time. They echoed each other’s demands for cheese, or apple slices; and when sated, they trotted across the sand stark naked and set about building a castle. This task was periodically interrupted as the three-year-olds traded the rude words they knew. Will offered a few toilet expressions, but Wayne had a stunning supply of epithets; when he got to “bastard” and “son of a bitch,” Trixie sprang up and whispered something in his ear. The boys quickly returned to their construction effort.
“He’s not yours, is he?” said Trixie, watching Will.
“What?” said Julia.
“He’s not your son. He’s adopted.”
Astonished at Trixie’s percipience, Julia waited until the boys ran out of earshot before replying. “Yes, he is adopted.”
“Wayne’s adopted,” Trixie continued. “Chip and I tried for years. After two stillbirths, I figured that something was wrong in here.” She rested her hand on her belly.
“I’m so sorry,” said Julia.
When Trixie said nothing, Julia wondered if her friend’s hard edge had to do with these losses.
“When I first saw Will at your house,” said Trixie, “I knew we had something special in common.”
Julia barely had time to discuss this bond with her friend before the boys let out shrieks of alarm.
An oncoming wave crashed near their castle with a hollow roar, and the surf breached its walls, tearing down the tower they had draped with seaweed and fortified with mussel shells. Will looked to Wayne with tearful dismay, but his companion merely giggled and threw himself onto the ruins, leaving the perfect indent of his bare bottom in the sand. This provoked Will’s first real laugh—a high, cascading gurgle of joy—so surprising to Julia that she bolted upright.
“What’s wrong?” asked Trixie.
“He’s never laughed before,” cried Julia.
Soon, both boys were leaving impressions of their bottoms all over the beach, and howling in delight.
That evening, as Julia told Howard about the day, Howard realized just how strong Julia’s attachment to Trixie had become. Soon the women were spending every day together. What most astonished Julia were the similarities in their teenage years: Trixie’s parents divorced at about the same time and sent her to a rigid girls’ academy. Yet both of them sought escape in romance—for Julia, it was the idealized sort, in Shakespeare; for Trixie, it was a succession of flawed men.
THEY TOOK THE BOYS to the ornamental gardens of the guest palace in Manama. The three-year-olds chased each other around the palms as Trixie made a confession.
“I’ve already told Wayne that he’s adopted.”
“Good heavens, Trixie, why would you do that? How could he possibly understand? A child needs certainty at this age; if he knows he’s lost his parents once, he might worry that he’ll lose you!”
“He needs to know the truth,” Trixie replied. “There is enough lying in my life, Julia. I’m not going to lie to my son.”
Julia said sharply, “Do you mean you lie to Chip?”
Trixie paused. “Yes—Chip prefers it that way. So I don’t tell him he bores me. And I don’t tell him that Wayne is the only thing keeping us together.” She hesitated, dabbing the shadow of her black eye. “Actually, I did once tell him that, but he seems to have gotten over it. Let’s face it: marriage is a compromise.”
“A compromise?” Julia frowned. “I think of it more as a bond, an alliance. Howard and I love each other. We share a trust, and we share an adventure.”
“Well, honey, you’re a helluva lucky woman,” Trixie replied.
Julia might have related Trixie’s compliment to Howard if he had ever shown a hint of respect for Trixie, but the company gossip had hardened his opinion of her. For months he resisted any suggestion of a gathering between the families. Then, one evening, Chip appeared at the door to make a personal appeal; Wayne’s fourth birthday was coming up, and they wanted to host a small dinner. This time Howard accepted—he couldn’t deny Will’s happy kinship with Wayne.
