The sky puts on the darkening blue coat
held for it by a row of ancient trees;
you watch: and the land grows distant in your sight,
one journeying to heaven, one that falls;
and leave you, not at home in either one,
not quite so still and dark as the darkened houses,
not calling to eternitv with the passion
of what becomes a star each night, and rises;
and leave you (inexpressibly to unravel)
your life, with its immensity and fear,
so that now bounded, now immeasurable,
it is alternately stone in you and star.
“Evening” by Ramer Maria Rilke
The large, white hull of the oceanliner moves through ice. The other passengers have retired for the night: no stars tonight. My father stands on the deck and stares ahead at the land. He lifts his immense fist, which rises into the sky then sinks into the sea. “Why?” he asks over and over. The word is a jagged rock in the freezing sea. “Why?” he asks again. And the rock stands alone.
“Where did Mom go?” I ask Sabine from across the ocean. Silence wraps around the receiver.
“I don’t know, Vanessa,” she says finally. “Nobody knows the real answer to that.”
“Sabine,” I say, “you must know. Please don’t lie to me.” She says nothing.
My voice does not sail like my mother’s once did. And the ocean crashes in my ears.
Marta lifted the domed cover from the silver server and watched Natalie closely through the steam: her eyes, their deep blue color, each eyelash — she could count them — her beautiful, regal nose, but most of all her mouth; she concentrated on it, waiting for her next words. She hung on these words, she lived for them, anticipated them through the delicious, steamy haze.
“I adore you,” Natalie said emphatically, stretched out on the huge bed, unreal in her beauty. “I adore you.” Marta reached out her hand but then stopped; she wanted to prolong this moment, wanted nothing to change it.
Natalie sighed. She sighed with delight at the eggs Benedict, the smoked trout, the champagne, the fresh flowers everywhere. “I wish this morning could last forever,” she said, dipping her finger into the runny yolk of the egg. Marta smiled and ran her rough hand up Natalie’s impossibly smooth back, just two years ago Marta had come to college never having been loved, not by her parents, not by anyone, and now there was this — this strange, unpredictable love, but it was love nonetheless.
Natalie turned toward Marta, and Marta ‘s hand slipped from her back. Natalie’s eyes were cold and blue, her face like sculpted alabaster.
“Light me a cigarette,” Natalie said sweetly, “will you?” Her face should have softened, but it did not.
“Of course,” Marta said, reaching for the Gaulois. Smoke only Gaulois in New York, Natalie had insisted, smoke only Marlboros in Paris. Marta lit a cigarette from the blue-winged package, held it in her mouth for a moment, inhaled deeply, and then passed it to Natalie. The bed seemed like a large boat, and they floated on it for a long time, just smoking. The chandelier glittered in the morning light. The pale pink walls seemed to sparkle.
“It reminds me of Italian candy,” Natalie said, running her hand down the glossy wall.
Natalie got up for more champagne and looked out onto New York, the city she loved. It glittered like diamonds in the morning light.
“It will be mine,” she said.
Marta came up from behind holding a pink present with white satin ribbons.
“Don’t touch me,” Natalie commanded, not turning around.
“Natalie,” Marta said.
“What do you want?” Natalie asked, turning abruptly. “What is it now?” Marta held out the present.
“For me?” she said.
“Happy birthday,” Marta said, closing her eyes.
“I wish this day could last forever. Forever,” Natalie said, and her voice dropped with a chilling finality.
“Happy birthday,” Marta said. “Go on, open it.”
She would have it all, she thought to herself. Marta poured more champagne. She watched the tiny bubbles rise in her glass. Just looking at them
made her dizzy with excitement.
“It’s beautiful,” Natalie said, holding the shining robe up to her. “It’s so beautiful.”
“I want this day to last forever,” Natalie had sighed, and for Marta in some ways it would — this happiness flung in her face, long after the happy times with Natalie had ended for good. She was not someone who could keep the past separate from the present. They existed simultaneously, always. If she could have dislodged it from her brain, this day, she probably would not have, despite the pain it would cause her as she sat in her room and told me the story. Every detail caused her pain. But it was a perfect memory, and for that she was grateful still.
“You’re the most beautiful woman in the world,” Marta said to Natalie, who had put on her new robe.
“How beautiful?” she demanded, rubbing up against her, intoxicated at the thought.
“More beautiful than Dominique Sanda?” she asked.
“Yes,” Marta said.
“More beautiful than Jeanne Moreau?”
“Oh, yes,” Marta whispered.
“More beautiful than Brigitte Bardot?”
“Mais oui,” Marta smiled.
“Mais oui,” Natalie laughed. “More beautiful than Marilyn Monroe?”
“Yes,” Marta said, holding her tightly, “even more beautiful than Marilvn Monroe.”
Jack looked at me, a champagne glass in the Plaza Hotel being lifted to the lips of Marta, of Natalie. He took me in his enormous hands, ran his fingers up the stem, and cradled the fragile bowl in his palm, then pressed hard, crushing the illusion to bits.
“I need you here,” he said, “now.”
“I need you, too,” I said.
“I know,” he said.
I was on the verge of tears. Whom were these tears for? Jack alone now linked me to the world, to moments in time measured by the hands of the clock. I pictured the two hands meeting like lovers at twelve and felt calmer. “I need you here,” I said. “I need you now.”
The first time I saw Jennifer Stafford, it was not in that dark, heart like chamber but in bright light, surrounded by women in the College Center. How easily the walls of her room had given in, changed size and shape in order to accommodate the contours of Marta ‘s grief. Jennifer’s own arms I assumed would be as yielding, but that was not the impression I got as I watched her putting papers into piles in preparation for the meeting. Even the simplest act performed by Jennifer commanded great attention. She did everything with such authority.
She did not look as I had imagined. I thought she would be plainer; I thought she would be more straightforward, less mysterious, but she was filled with darkness and a primitive allure, not modern in the least, though the modern world was her domain. Her hair was like the mane of a lion; her brown eyes were animal eyes; her voice was low and, since it was outside the tonal range of most voices, it distinguished itself, separated itself from others, and you could hear it though she spoke softly. She seemed distant, although she was introducing herself and welcoming the women who had gathered. She was speaking of the Women’s Center. Four years ago she had rescued it single-handedly from obscurity. She alone had made it work, shaping it into a viable union. Now, this being her last year, she wanted to make sure it would continue without her. She was tired, it had all exhausted her, and she had her thesis to do now. She would have to start giving the Women’s Center up, letting go. She sighed, surveying the crowd. No one immediately jumped out at her as a choice for a successor.