But I am stunned by Gwen’s admission — that she feels old, too old for punk and the clubs. Of course this makes her more like me than ever, and ought, in a way, to please me. But it doesn’t. To me she will be — and I suppose I need her to be — eternally, even prosaically young, forever at the age I met her. She is the outrageous art history student, the life of every party, and so forth. You’ll always be young, I exult, impassioned. No, no, she demurs. As if she means it, she repeats twice, I’m over the hill, Lulu. Then she laughs at herself, more for using the phrase “over the hill,” I think, than for anything else. A second later, she is pensive again.
Gwen rarely smiles; she laughs but doesn’t smile. I’d nearly forgotten that too. Instead of a smile, her lips might straighten into a narrow dash, a printer’s em-dash — she’s a literary type — or move into a grin that is more nearly a grimace. This is especially obvious, I remember, when she meets people for the first time. She is in her own way shy, I think, though most people would think her arrogant. She’s terribly afraid, I think, of being in new situations and is enormously vulnerable, quite easily given to feelings of rejection. As I stare at her now, I wonder if this has to do with her being a woman, black, or both. I think I wonder this now somehow because of Helen. Helen is bold about being female, her own kind, and almost aggressive about her differences from others. She had no problem telling me that the Westerns I loved bored her. And then there is the way she snapped at those Greek men. Years ago I hadn’t ever reflected seriously or thought too much about how different Gwen was and might be from me, our backgrounds and so on. Years back I didn’t think about it. Perhaps it is only distance that allows true reflection.
Gwen is lounging languidly on the couch; still she’s quite contained at the same time. Her feet are plugged under her bottom, her black pumps strewn on the floor. Her fitted gray suit — she often wears mannish suits — gives her a there’s-no-foolishness-here image, but the wineglass balances flirtatiously and contradictorily in her hand. She has painted pale purple polish on her short nails. Lavender-blue, she calls it.
My unsmiling Gwen. It’s as if she proclaims to the world, I may be masochistic with men but I’m damned if I’m going to be servile as well. Or that may be the way it is with me, what I, Horace, would say to the world had I as much courage as Gwen. For though she is terrified, she moves about and into worlds I myself shrink from. She dares herself constantly not to be afraid. Perhaps the most courageous people are the ones who are most afraid. Imagine, I think to myself, the fear of a mountain climber. Or a social climber. It is really difficult to sift other people’s feelings from one’s own. Especially when one feels close to the other.
Gwen has picked up one of the books I borrowed from Alicia, the one titled, simply, The Gypsies. She is leafing through it, reading a bit here and there. She looks at me quizzically. I tell her they’re Alicia’s books. Gwen met Alicia a few years ago, but Alicia and she didn’t take to each other. Actually I think Alicia liked Gwen, but Gwen didn’t give her the time of day except to talk about opera. At one time Gwen devoted herself to opera and ballet, one of those people who knew the best cheap seats at the Met, very disdainful of those with season tickets who didn’t attend, leaving their seats vacant. Years back I told her she ought to be grateful, for she could move from her cheap seat to one of the better ones. Gwen reproached me in no uncertain terms: being grateful was not a feeling she easily owned.
She inquires if I am killing Gypsies in my next crime story. Certainly not, I assure her, nothing of the sort. It is research for myself, for a special project inspired by Helen. I explain that Helen is most likely off with a young Gypsy woman, and that I have become interested in the subject. It is Gwen’s turn now to harrumph, Quel exotic. She brings up a letter I once wrote her in which I went on at considerable length about some Gypsies here, who I thought had stolen from me. I am forced to admit that I am prejudiced against them, but find this a failing in myself, I tell her, and then I go on, no doubt pompously, about how, if one studies a subject, or engages it in a serious way, it becomes impossible to hold on to the same prejudices. Gwen contends that my belief in the power of reason ought to be examined, that prejudice is not reasonable. Though I wouldn’t know about that, she expands listlessly. She laughs again. She is nothing if not ironic; and I ought to take her up, I know, but I have launched into a train of thought that leads to the conclusion that we study what we hate as much as what we love. Yes, Gwen says, we study our demons. And our demons won’t let us go, Lulu. For a second Gwen appears desperate, at a loss when she is never at a loss — for words at least. I don’t know what to do or say. She tells me to forget it. She says she’s quite all right, just a little tight.
Did I look stricken? I wonder. How I hate being given away by my eyes, by myself. I offer her some cheese and bread — the bread is a bit stale, like that metaphor she offered about her group. She eats a bit and complains that I am in no way a Jewish mother. Perhaps I’m a Greek mother, I say. Does that mean I am a father? We laugh together and some of the tension passes. Then I announce, with no little anxiety, that John, a handsome young musician, an ex-beau of Helen’s from New York, will be here tomorrow to see about building bookshelves. Gwen and he will certainly meet, and in anticipation of that meeting, I must explain his presence beforehand, I believe. I don’t want any more unruly surprises. Gwen shoots a knowing we’ve-been-here-before look at me. I expected this. I can keep nothing from her, at least nothing that is about love or lust. To deflect her curiosity, I remark, rather more loudly than I want, You’re making quite a name for yourself, dear. John knew who you were. Gwen grimaces, inhales deeply and sips her wine. She asks rhetorically, because how would I, out-of-touch Horace, know if she ever slept with him. You know how forgetful I am, she says; then inquires disinterestedly, he’s staying with Alicia? Such a woman. She emphasizes woman. Clearly Gwen remembers that she doesn’t like Alicia, but I don’t remind Gwen that that aspect of her supposedly bad memory has not suffered injury. Also I don’t repeat that John referred to Gwen as old. I have no desire to hurt her.
Perhaps Gwen grimaces because she is nearsighted. She refuses to wear glasses. I have learned to accept the fact that she subscribes to Parker’s “men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses.” As I said, I do believe she is very much like Parker. Gwen is vain. Often she cannot recognize friends on the street or at a party unless they are right in front of her. She uses this to her advantage — she can shun people and seem not to and can always say, I didn’t see you. I’m as blind as a bat. Then she might wink. The literary line which divides her face cryptically, or critically — it is doing so now — allows her the liberty of ambiguity, or rather the solace of ambiguity.
I’m throwing a party for you, dear. I’ll invite everyone. Tout le monde. Gwen smiles and grimaces. She hopes that I serve food, so that people don’t retch all night and the next day, as they did in Cambridge that time, our last and most infamous New Year’s Eve party, which ended in a near-riot. Recalling it makes me laugh uproariously. I twist or roll in the chair and hold my sides, then lose my breath and begin to hiccup. Gwen watches me steadily, with some concern. You don’t laugh enough, Lulu, you’re out of shape. When the hiccups stop and I catch my breath, I explain that memories have come flooding in. Of our friends vomiting? she asks, deadpan. I shake my head and start to laugh again. I was also thinking of much more pleasant things. Remember Peter collapsing into his lover’s arms? Pleasant, Gwen retorts. I ignore her. Remember George, absolutely blotto, collapsing, after much Scotch and many pills, remember how he crashed upon the table like a giant redwood cut at the stem? Timber, we shouted. Timbers we called him afterward, for a long time. He’s gone, Gwen notes cryptically.