“What are you talking about?” she said. Their daughter appeared in the doorway. She had lean arms, a lean body, small breasts. Her eyes were a riveting blue. “Hello, Kate,” Viri said.
She was engaged in biting her thumbnail. Her feet were bare.
“I’ll tell you what Europe has,” her father continued, “the detritus of failed civilizations. Night clubs. Fleas.”
“Fleas?”
“Jivan’s here,” Kate said.
Nora Marcel-Maas pressed her face to the glass to see out. “Where?”
“He just drove up.”
They heard the front door open. “Hello,” a voice called.
“In here!” Marcel-Maas shouted.
They heard him come down the hall. The kitchen was the warmest room in the barn; the upper floors were not even heated.
Jivan was short. He was thin, like the boys one sees loitering in plazas of Mexico and countries further south. He was one of those boys, but with manners, with newly bought clothes.
“Hello,” he said, entering. “Hello, Kate. You’ve gotten so beautiful. Let me see. Turn around.” She did so without hesitation. He took her hand and kissed it like a bunch of flowers. “Robert, your daughter is fantastic. She has the heart of a courtesan.”
“Don’t worry. She’s getting married.”
“I thought it was just a trial,” Jivan complained. “Isn’t it?”
“More or less,” she said.
“Viri,” Jivan said, “I saw your car. That’s what made me stop. How are you?”
“Are you driving your motorcycle?” Viri asked.
“Would you like another lesson?”
“I don’t think so.”
“That was nothing, that little accident.”
“I’d like to try again,” Viri said, “but my side still hurts.” Jivan accepted some wine. His hands were small, the nails well cared for, his face smooth, like a child’s.
“Where have you been, in the city?” Marcel-Maas asked.
“Where’s Nora?”
“She was here a minute ago.”
“Yes, I just came back,” Jivan said. “I spent last night there. I went to a sort of reception… a Lebanese thing. It was late, so I stayed. They’re very strange, American women,” he said. He sat down and smiled politely. With him one was in cafés and drab restaurants warmed by the murmur of talk. He smiled again. His teeth were strong. He slept with a knife at the head of his bed.
“You know, I met this woman,” he said. “She was the ex-wife of an ambassador or someone, blond, in her thirties. After the party we were near the place where I was going to stay. There was a bar, and I asked her, very matter-of-factly, if she’d like to stop there for a drink. You can’t imagine what she said. She said, ‘I can’t. I have the curse.’ ”
“Haven’t you had enough of them?” Marcel-Maas said.
“Enough? Can one have enough?”
“They’re all like lukoum to you.”
“Locoum,” Jivan corrected. “Rahat locoum. That’s Turkish delight,” he translated. “Very fattening. Robert likes the sound of it. Someday I’ll bring you some rahat locoum. Then you’ll see what it is.”
“I know what it is,” Marcel-Maas said. “I’ve had plenty of it.”
“Not the real rahat.”
“Real.”
Jivan was his friend, Marcel-Maas used to say. He had no other friends, not even his wife. He was going to divorce her anyway. She was neurotic. An artist should live with an uncomplicated woman, a woman like Bonnard’s who would pose in only her shoes. The rest of it would follow. By the rest of it, he meant a hot lunch every day, without which he could not work. He sat down to the table like an Irish laborer, hands stained, head down, potatoes, meat, thick slices of bread. He was silent, he had no jokes in him, he was waiting for things to resolve themselves while he ate, to form into something unexpected and interesting like the coat of fine bubbles on one’s leg in the bath.
“So where’s your mother, Kate?” he said. “Where’d she disappear to?”
Kate shrugged. She had the languor of a delivery boy, of someone who could not be hurt. She had lived through unheated bedrooms, unpaid bills, her father’s abandoning them, his returns, beautiful birds he had carved out of applewood and painted and placed on her bed. He had spent a lot of time with her when she was a child. She remembered some of it. She had lived in the waves of color he had chosen, irradiated by them as by the sun. She had seen his torn sketchbooks on the floor with footprints across their pages, she had found him sprawled drunk in her room, his face on the thick spruce boards. She could never betray him; it was unthinkable. He asked nothing of her. All these years he had been beaten, as if in a street fight, before her eyes. He did not complain. He talked about painting sometimes, about pruning the trees. There was in him the saintliness of a man who never looked in the mirror, whose thoughts were dazzling but illiterate, whose dreams were immense. Every penny he had ever made he had given to them, and they had spent it.
Her boyfriend in California was a painter. They smoked, with music filling the air, for days at a time. They stayed out late, they slept half the day. Her father had taught her nothing, but the fabric of his life was the only one that felt good to her; she wore it as she wore his old shoes sometimes, his feet were very small.
“Well, where is she?” he asked. “You can’t get rid of her when you work. Then when you want her, she leaves. Why don’t you go and tell her Jivan is here?”
“Oh, she knows,” Kate replied.
11
JIVAN LOVED CHILDREN. THEY showed him their games, they knew he would learn to play them quickly. He did not descend to it; he became a child. He had time for it. He embodied the simple virtues of a life lived alone. He had time for everything—for cooking, for plants.
He lived in an empty store that had once been a pharmacy. A long, serene room in front, the windows curtained with bamboo and dense with plants. At night one could just barely see in. It looked like a restaurant, the last patrons lingering. A racing bicycle hung on the wall. A white Alsatian put his nose silently, without barking, to the glass of the door.
He had birds in a cage and a gray parrot that spread its wings.
“Perruchio,” he would say, “do the angel.”
Nothing.
“The angel, the angel,” he said. “Fa l’angelone.”
Like a cat stretching its claws the parrot would slowly fan out its wings and feathers. Its head turned in profile to one, black, heartless eye.
“Why is he named Perruchio?” Danny asked. As she tried to approach him, he moved sideways a step at a time.
“That was his name when I got him,” Jivan said.
He played twenty questions. His education had been the simplest possible: books. He read no fiction, only journals, letters, the lives of the great.
“All right,” he said. “Are you ready? I have one.”
“A man,” Danny said.
“Yes.”
“Living.”
“No.”
A pause while they abandoned hope of its being easy.
“Did he have a beard?”
Their questions were always oblique.
“Yes, a beard.”
“Lincoln!” they cried.
“No.”
“Did he have a big family?”
“Yes, big.”
“Napoleon!”
“No, not Napoleon.”
“How many questions is that?”
“I don’t know—four, five,” he said.
He brought them gifts, boxes in which expensive soap had come, miniature playing cards, Greek beads. He appeared for dinner in the October dusk, his feet crushing the cool gravel, a bottle of wine in his hand. Autumn was coming; it was in the air.