Once again the table was spread. A cold snack, this time, with tea and more plum pudding. Lorette sniffled throughout.
An hour later we were bidding them good-bye.
Don't catch cold, said my mother, wit's three blocks to the L station. She knew we would take a taxi, but it was a word, like art, which she hated to mention.
Will we see you soon? asked Lorette at the gate.
I think so, said I.
For New Year's?
Maybe.
Don't make it too long, said my father gently. And good luck with the writing!
At the corner we hailed a taxi.
Whew! said Stasia, as we piled in.
Not too bad, was it? said I.
No-o-o-. Thank God, I have no relatives to visit.
We settled back in our seats. Stasia kicked off her shoes.
That album! said Stasia. I've never seen such a collection of half-wits. It's a miracle you're sane, do you realize that?
Most families are like that, I replied. The tree of man is nothing but a huge Tannenbaum glistening with ripe, polished maniacs. Adam himself must have been a lop-sided, one-eyed monster ... What we need is a drink. I wonder if there's any Kummel left?
I like your father, said Mona. There's a lot of him in you, Val.
But his mother! said Stasia.
What about her? said I.
I'd have strangled her years ago, said Stasia.
Mona thought this funny. A strange woman, she said. Reminds me a little of my own mother. Hypocrites. And stubborn as mules. Tyrannical too, and narrow-minded. No love in them, not an ounce.
I'll never be a mother, said Stasia. We all laughed, I'll never be a wife either. Jesus, it's hard enough to be a woman. I hate women! They're all nasty bitches, even the best of them. I'll be what I am—a female impersonator. And don't ever make me dress like this again, please. I feel like an utter fool—and a fraud.
Back in the basement, we got out the bottles. There was Kummel all right, and brandy, rum, Benedictine, Cointreau. We brewed some strong black coffee, sat down at the gut table, and took to chatting like old friends. Stasia had removed her corset. It hung over the back of her chair, like a relic from the museum.
If you don't mind, she said, I'm going to let my breasts hang out. She fondled them lovingly. They're not too bad, do you think? Could be a little fuller perhaps ... I'm still a virgin.
Wasn't that strange, she said, his mentioning Correggio? Do you think he really knows anything about Correggio?
It's possible, I said. He used to attend the auctions with that Isaac Walker, his predecessor. He might even be acquainted with Cimabue or Carpaccio. You should hear him on Titian sometime! You'd think he had studied with him.
I'm all mixed up, said Stasia, dosing herself with another brandy. Your father talks painters, your sister talks music, and your mother talks about the weather. Nobody knows anything about anything, really. They're like mushrooms talking together ... That must have been a weird walk you had, through the cemetery. I'd have gone out of my mind.
Val doesn't mind it, said Mona. He can take it.
Why? said Stasia. Because he's a writer? More material, is that it?
Maybe, said I. Maybe you have to wade through rivers of shit to find a germ of reality.
Not me, said Stasia. I prefer the Village, faky as it is. At least you can air your views there.
Mona now spoke up. She had just had a bright idea. Why don't we all go to Europe?
Yes, said Stasia airily, why don't we?
We can manage it, said Mona.
Certainly, said Stasia. I can always borrow the passage money.
And how would we live, once there? I wanted to know.
Like we do here, said Mona. It's simple.
And what language would we speak?
Everybody knows English, Val. Besides, there are loads of Americans in Europe. Especially in France.
And we'd sponge on them, is that it?
I didn't say that. I say if you really want to go, there's always a way.
We could model, said Stasia. Or Mona could. I'm too hairy.
