"Thank you," I said, "I liked it, only you hurried excessively. It was clear they didn't give you much time."
That was what I said. I could not say I hadn't liked the way she performed; I didn't want to hurt her. Zhigulin was also standing there with his camera, absent-minded, distraught Zhigulin, who of course had just arrived and had seen nothing.
"I can't understand where George is," Elena was saying, irritably glancing around. "He was in the hall, but where is he now?"
She was very edgy, she had no fucking need of her faithful dog Eddie, who would have come crawling all covered with blood if she had called. She needed George, who was not there. Eddie was a noble knight: he did not remind Elena of her remark that she didn't love anyone, all men were the same to her. Eddie well knew, from Elena's friends, that George had not invited Elena to Southampton last weekend; that Elena had found in his house some Tampax, obviously another woman's; that George, who had earlier promised to buy Elena a fur coat, was by now planning to buy her just a cloth coat. And that to this day he had never yet paid, even once, for Zhigulin's studio, as he had promised to do. The lame-legged cynic and zhlob, he was toying with her like a mouse.
Eddie held his tongue and only said sympathetically, "Maybe he's in the lobby, shall we go look?" – and went with Elena to the lobby.
Of course, there was no George in the lobby or in prospect. She did not cry, maybe she can't cry, I don't know; the last time I saw her tears was when I strangled her, or tried to. Now she was edgy. Turning to Zhigulin, she said she would go home, perhaps George would call home; after all, they were supposed to go to the theater that evening.
I said that it would be nice to celebrate Elena's performance in the Russian manner and that I proposed going somewhere for a drink, it was my treat. Simultaneously Eddie-baby apologized for not bringing Elena flowers, I had been in such a rush to see her that I hadn't had time, and then I had wondered whether she wouldn't be angry – it might be preposterous, by local standards, to give flowers to a model who had taken part in a show. It might be provincial.
In the end the two of us went to a bar. Zhigulin didn't go. We sat, drank, and she explained to me a rather crazy idea of hers about some bolts of fabric in which she wanted to wrap herself up, thereby making a dress. She had some other wild designs for this same fabric; I was supposed to do the sewing. Although I myself am not a particularly normal guy, I understood that this too – Elena's desire to bypass money, have dresses in this way, simply and easily, and to play designer besides – was a form of the fucking craziness caused by Western life. I understood that this childish venture was crazy, not a fucking thing would come of it, but I consented. I was afraid of hurting her or provoking her anger.
"Now let's go and I'll show you the fabrics, I have them at the studio," Elena said. "You'll help me wrap myself up. I have to go to the theater with George tonight, and I'm so sick of my old dresses."
"Look, let me give you some money, and you buy yourself a dress," I said.
"Oh, no…" she said uncertainly.
"Why not, Elena," I said. "We're old friends. When you become a great model, you'll help me."
"But how much money do you have with you?" she asked with interest.
"Oh, about a hundred dollars," I said. She thought for a second.
"Finish your drink," she said. "Let's go to Bloomingdale's and see what they have."
She knocked back her drink in one motion. At that moment we were served with little sausages and some meatballs something like tefteli, on a little dish. Perhaps this is the custom. She tried one, then took another by the little stick on which it was impaled and popped it into my mouth. Attention of a special sort, a caress. I paid, gave the barman such a big tip that he grinned with pleasure, and we left.
The taxi ride took a very long time, traffic was heavy. We could almost have gotten there faster on foot. She was very edgy, tried to get out too soon, I kept soothing her.
"No, I'll buy myself some shoes," she said when we got out of the cab. "I can adapt that fabric somehow, but I still don't have any shoes." I said that it was up to her, and that I personally advised her to buy a big item, "something that will look important, be noticeable," I said.
This time, strangely enough, the shoes that she bought thirty minutes later were ones I had pointed out to her. They were black shoes on a high, thin heel with a little gold trim. She tried on these shoes, then dragged the saleswoman to another department, tried on something there, then returned, put two mismatched shoes on her feet, walked up and down, looked, and settled after all on the ones I had pointed out to her. Having completed the tedious payment procedure – at Bloomingdale's they don't hurry, the shoes cost $57 – we left and walked up and down through other departments. I don't know how we ended up in lingerie, she was already examining panties with ruches, frills, and flowers. "Do you like them?" she kept turning to ask me. "I've been terrified to look at women's underwear for some time," I told her. She let my remark pass. Why should she listen to me, she had no fucking need of my problems. I shut up again, although I so wanted to finish what I had to say.
We bought her a considerable number of panties and some other trifles, then went to the studio.
There she immediately undressed in the bathroom and came out wearing just her pantyhose, right on her naked body, without panties, as models do at shows to avoid having a panty-line on the hips. The triangle of hair at her peepka stared ironically at little Eddie. Bare-breasted and bare-pooped under the pantyhose, Elena walked out in the new shoes.
I don't think she was tormenting poor Eddie on purpose, she simply wasn't thinking about him. She was used to going around that way among photographers, among the staff, and did not intend to change her habits. Little Eddie would see her naked and be miserable? To hell with him!
"You're a nobody!" The words she had spoken to me over the telephone in February came back to me now. "No anger has my soul!" I told myself. "Like Christ with Mary Magdalene!" I went on, to calm myself. It helped.
Suddenly it dawned on me: Good Lord, she doesn't know what she's supposed to do with us all, with men, with the Victors, the Eddies, the Jeans… Use us in sex, get our money, have us take her to a restaurant. That's all she can do with us. She's innocent as a baby, for she doesn't know how else she can use us. No one ever taught her. For the rest, we get in her way. She was dreaming when she lived with Victor, she was dreaming with me, she's dreaming now. She doesn't care who's with her. She doesn't see. The discovery terrified me.
She doesn't know about love. Doesn't know that it's possible to love someone, pity him, save him, snatch him from prison, from illness, stroke his head, wrap his throat in a scarf, or, as in the gospel, wash his feet and dry them with her own hair. No one has told her about love, Cod's gift to man. Reading books, she missed it. Brute love is accessible to her, there's nothing complicated about that. She thinks it's all there is. This is why she's always so depressed in her notebooks (I've always read them), so helpless and dull in her perception of the world.
Maybe she'll be lucky yet and fall in love. It will be hard for her, and wonderful. I envy the man with whom the love of this unfortunate creature at last finds expression. He will inherit a lot. So much love must have accumulated within her. But most likely she will never experience the happiness of giving her whole self, her soul, to another creature, never experience the sweet pain of this act, so unnatural in an animal, which is what man is.
Many of you in this world, like her, are unhappy, but only by reason of your inability to love, to love another creature. Poor, poor you! When Eddie fell apart he was nevertheless happy; though sick, he has within him Love. Envy him, gentlemen!