Perfection (9 page)

We corresponded on and off over the years—sometimes just a letter a year. The friendship continued after I began my relationship with Henry. A few more visits, now chaste. He had married Gabrielle, the girlfriend in Paris, and now they were parents of a daughter.

Jean was leaner; the curls of his hair had grayed to the color of cinnamon toast. His face was tanned, and deltas of wrinkles fanned out from his hazel eyes. His nose was sharper, his curved lips thinner. The years of pipe smoking had stained his teeth, though not the two front ones, their splay broadened, still charming and familiar to me.

I looked much younger, I concluded, taking a mental inventory of the number of skin potions, tubes of whitening toothpaste,
and boxes of hair color I had purchased since turning forty, my part of the American obsession with self-preservation and denial of old age and death.

“Vous êtes tellement chic.”
Jean admired our white outfits with amused irony. In our white dresses, Liza and I were ready for a Victorian tea party.

My camera captured the scene in the cobbled square in front of the famous Panthéon: women’s hats and scarves floating against the twilight sky, a man dressed in a white 1920s suit and spats like Jay Gatsby come to life, the exuberant synchronized waving of white napkins as the meal progressed. The police showed up to cheering and jeering and more waving of white napkins. Amid the festivity, Liza played with a friendly dog under the table. I wondered if all the commotion and new people were overwhelming her, or if she was missing her father, who had often reminded me of a playful terrier and who, in affectionate moments, had sometimes even licked my face. I was glad to have Jean there; it was good to take his hand as the evening concluded and the tables emptied.

At midnight, Jean walked us back to our hotel. We had made plans to meet at the Gare d’Austerlitz in the morning—we would spend our last weekend in France together in the country village where he lived with his daughter.

As our train rushed through the flat countryside, Jean raged about the evils of city life, the Internet, cell phones, computers, and the abject materialism of modern society. I smiled, grateful that I had left my cell phone and laptop at home, amused that, compared with Jean, I was a paragon of modern-age wizardry, whereas at home I engaged in a love-hate relationship with my
computer and all things technical. As he continued on and the landscape softened, I considered how completely unhappy we would have made each other if we had ever tried to be together. How much better was this—a twenty-year friendship, still respectful and loving.

His house was a magical cottage, overgrown with ivy and flowering vines. His daughter’s room was welcoming, and soon, despite the language barrier, our girls found a way to play together. Jean took me around the back of the house and up a flight of wooden stairs to show me his studio, a perfect artist’s garret: a table with neatly arranged papers and notebooks, plant specimens, rocks and shells, a few examples of his work framed on the wall, a saggy but comfortable old sitting chair. A good place to spend life. That’s what I would need to find for myself.

Gabrielle, Jean’s wife, met us at the train station upon our return to Paris. She had always remained here, in her small city apartment. The French have such interesting solutions to the problems of cohabitation and marriage. Petite with long dark hair and those straight-cut bangs, she was stylish and urban in a crisp white blouse and dark skirt, perched slightly above me on modern black platform sandals. We ate Parisian hot dogs in the nearby Jardin des Plantes, sweating in the stupor of the record heat wave burning all of Europe.

I had never envied Gabrielle, though I understood the choices she had made, having made similar ones myself with Henry. She was alone for half the year, married to a man who placed his art above all other things, except his daughter. Another self-absorbed artist whom I had loved, indeed still loved,
because, like Tomas, he had always encouraged me to pursue my creative life.

We parted on the blistering sidewalk, and Liza and I hailed a well-deserved taxi for the trip back to our hotel, where we packed up to leave for Italy the next morning.

Stefano, a friend of many years,
drove us from the airport in Pisa to his family’s apartment just outside the Porta Romana in Florence, where we would stay for the next week. Waking late in the morning to thick and heavy heat, Liza and I found relief at the local
caffè-gelateria
—homemade ice cream in at least twenty flavors. We couldn’t think of a good reason not to eat ice cream at ten in the morning.

We left the hot streets to enter the Brancacci Chapel, site of famous frescoes by Fra Filippo Lippi, Fra Angelico, and Masaccio. In these paintings, one sees familiar faces: the man who just cut you a piece of parmigiano cheese, the friendly shopkeeper who sold you a pair of shoes. The gene pool seems unaltered since the Renaissance.

During a visit years earlier, Henry and I had stepped into a
caffè
and remarked together on the face of the bartender. With his long dark hair, aquiline nose, and large dark eyes, he seemed a Fra Angelico portrait subject come to life. After drinking Campari cocktails in the bar, Henry and I had polished off a huge
bistecca alla fiorentina
and a bottle of red wine in a nearby restaurant, then made a drunken trip to a friend’s house on a motorcycle we had rented for the week. I hugged Henry’s waist while the engine buzzed and he navigated the cobbled streets. I felt like Claudia Cardinale in
81/2
, young and glamorous.

Henry and I had eaten lunch
at this particular restaurant ten years earlier, and now Liza and I were here at last. I’d gotten us lost in the narrow streets as I tried to find the place from memory. Liza was complaining, a rarity for a kid who so far had been a trouper. I had dragged her all over Florence to museums and chapels to look at art, plying her with frequent stops for
gelati
.

“Mama, when are we getting there?” she whined wearily.

“It’s worth it, Lizzie, I promise, you’ll see.” I didn’t blame her, we were both fading, the promise of a cold drink and a memorable meal the only thing that kept me from ducking into the nearest pizzeria and calling off the search. Finally, the small square I remembered appeared, and Liza and I found shelter from the sun at a little table under the restaurant awning.

On the previous occasion, Henry had ordered
colli di pollo ripieni
. Each stuffed chicken neck was presented in the vertical position, the head and coxcomb centered in a ruffled collar of sautéed vegetables, as if the chicken’s head and feathered shoulder had pierced through the white plate. The effect was macabre, and the horror on the faces of our vegetarian lunch companions must have exceeded Henry’s expectations. I had laughed heartily, despite feeling repulsed, with wifely pride—Henry had outdone himself. He had great fun moving the heads around on the plate, making squawking noises, while the vegetarian friends recoiled in their seats.

No chicken necks today.

“We’ll both have the
pomodoro in gelatina
and then the
polpet
tone
.” The tomato gelatin was a specialty of this restaurant. Our white plates arrived with the upturned, flat-ended cones of car-mine red gelatin quivering in pools of bright green olive oil. Liza and I had fun jiggling the gelatin with a fork, playing with one’s food being just one of the many delights of eating a meal with a six-year-old epicure. White, unsalted Tuscan bread absorbed the tomato and oil; we squished it all between our fingers before popping the sodden sponge into our mouths.

Polpettone,
the next course, might be translated as meat loaf. This was not American diner meat loaf (which I love, with a big dollop of mustard). This dish was more like a pâté. We ate the rich slabs silently and reverently.

Fully satiated, Liza made a still life drawing of the remains of her lunch, complete with her glass of Coke, a rare treat, in colored pencils on the paper table covering.

While we forked up mouthfuls of our dessert, a light but intense chocolate cake, a man wearing elegant tan suede, tasseled loafers seduced a woman at the next table. The suede loafers reminded me of a pair Henry had owned.

“We never ate the wild boar sausages!”

As Liza and I left the restaurant, I remembered this line, Henry’s frequently quoted favorite, from the Japanese film
Tampopo
. The gangster of several of the film’s vignettes utters these dying words to his weeping lover. They are both dressed in white, his jacket stained with the fresh blood of many gunshot wounds.

I felt a sudden pang of sorrow for Henry, who never got to eat this meal, sweep his tasting pointer finger through the sauces, or pick at the leftovers on my plate.

A week later,
Stefano drove us back to the airport. At the gate we said our good-byes.
“Allora ciao, Giuliettina,”
he said, embracing me forcefully and kissing me on both cheeks. He seized Liza and raised her up high, which she loved. I thanked him for having us and gave him some last-minute girlfriend advice. Any delay in boarding our plane was welcome—I was dreading the return home.

My refrigerator was empty
except for a bowl of fruit salad with a note from Cathy, welcoming us home and thanking me for letting her family use the swimming pool during our absence. I filled a small bowl and nibbled at it while reacquainting myself with our house and sifting through piles of mail.

I called Tomas the next day, and we made plans to get together. I felt peaceful, tired from the journey but restored in other ways. Neither Tanya nor Emily could take Liza for a sleepover, so I called Cathy. I figured she owed me one, fruit salad aside, after using the pool for three weeks.

She was reading a book on her porch hammock when I arrived. She came over and embraced me as I walked up the steps to her house carrying Liza’s sleepover bag. Cathy’s hugs had always made me uncomfortable. At that moment, however, she was a most convenient babysitter. I wasn’t interested in lingering long on her porch.

“I’m off to see Tomas. Let’s hope that absence makes the heart grow fonder,” I joked. Cathy gave me another hug before I walked
back to my car.

I felt cheerful driving up the road, beside the railroad tracks, enjoying the view of the mountains and river, listening to the All-man Brothers. I hummed along to “Stormy Monday,” reliving my adolescence of the mid-1970s, when young Tomas was just a newborn. While listening to Duane’s guitar licks, as heartbreaking as the song lyrics, I reminded myself of the futility of unreasonable expectations, while there was still time.

Later, we were lying in the dark. An ambulance passed by on the main road a half mile away, audible but invisible through the trees. For me, the sound of an ambulance siren immediately brought back the afternoon of Henry’s death.

“I still miss him so much, I can’t bear it. How long is this going to go on?”

Tomas replied softly, “Do you miss everything about him?”

I paused.
The man asked me an honest question. I should give him an honest answer.
“No, I don’t, but when I think that way I feel very guilty.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty.”

“What do you mean?”

Tomas stared at the ceiling. A crack was forming in my brain. He had something to tell me.

“Tomas, please, I want you to tell me. Please tell me.”

“There was a woman in California,” Tomas said. “I thought you knew. One time I was in the kitchen with Henry, he was telling me about her. You came in, and the expression on your face made me think that you knew, that it was something you two were working out. But now I see that you didn’t know anything.”

But I knew just who the woman was. Henry had come home from one of his trips out West. While unpacking his suitcase, he told me about meals he had eaten and people he had met.

“I met this woman, you’ll love her. She lives in Portland with her two kids. She’s petite, just like you. She even likes knitting. Her place is a complete mess. I guess that’s what happens when you get divorced.”

“Is anything going on between you?” I asked Henry, feeling chilled. Even allowing myself to ask the question felt shocking.

“No, nothing,” he replied.

“Is there more I need to know?” I asked Tomas as the darkness of his room gathered about us.

“Yes, there is,” he said, “but I think you need to speak to other people. I don’t know everything, but there is more.”

A few more quiet moments passed. “Tomas, I feel like I’m going to find out some very dark things, is that right?”

“Yes.”

Amazingly, we slept.

In the morning, I slipped out of Tomas’s bed and retreated with my cell phone to the bathroom. Cool morning light filtered through the outsize green leaves of a tropical potted plant. I sat on the closed toilet seat and called Emily. I sensed now that the tension I’d felt these last months might be related to some burden she’d been carrying, greater even than witnessing Henry’s last moments with me. She started crying when I told her what I knew. I had caught her unprepared, but it took little coaxing to get the truth out of her. She must have been feeling like a corked bottle full of secrets.

“It’s Cathy,” she said, her voice choked. “Cathy and Henry
were having an affair, for two years at least. We found all their e-mails on his computer the morning after he died.”

I listened as Emily described the panicked decisions made the morning after Henry’s death—that morning in his office when I heard a woman cry out.
Whose voice had screamed?
Matthew had hidden the evidence on Henry’s computer so that I would not find it during such a vulnerable time. In the midst of everything, Cathy had come over. She wanted to help with funeral arrangements, she said. Matthew confronted her, and she left. Later she was summoned over to delete her correspondence from Henry’s e-mail.