Diptych
I moved to New York with every intention of falling in love. The city contained the right species of man: timid, bien-pensant, and incapable of refinement. I preferred this incapacity to the real but odious refinement of the men of Charleston, the city of my birth. Perhaps it is the brackish water, perhaps it is the rippling heat of the marshes, perhaps it is the delicate hues of architecture; I do not know, but whatever the cause, Charlestonian men are odiously refined. I knew a homeless man named Mr. Green who typified this paradox. He was an ex-Latin teacher who had impregnated three students in one semester, a feat, as far as I know, never replicated in the Charleston area. By the time I knew him, he was a scruffy, despondent lush who seasoned the sadness of his life by stuffing scented handkerchiefs in his jacket pocket and strolling beneath the arcing oaks of Calhoun Street, humming untranslated hexameters of Virgil.
I landed in New York in high summer. Compared to Charleston it was ugly, denuded, and indefensibly vertical. What trees survived were malnourished and eager to please. Central Park, which I had regarded from a distance with cautious optimism, was like a bite of meat dissolving in the stomach of commerce. Curiosity, that blight of medieval pilgrims, wormed into my brain. What historical force had rendered this city so gray, so lifeless? Could it be advertising? Industry?
Gentrification? No matter. I was not there to ponder the polis. I was there to fall in love, and if possible, find a little theater work.
I found a garret in Queens just before the southerly winds of November commenced, carrying an odor of igloos. The garret was small, occasionally warm, and my roommates were spiders. Small brown ones mostly, arachnids with white daubs on their foreheads and a penchant for spinning tapestries between the arms of my toilet seat. More than once I razed their dwellings with my ejecta.
In December, I auditioned for the part of Fantine in an all-female production of Les Misérables. In the waiting area, which appeared to be a once-beautiful library, ten flaxen-haired women sat on folding chairs, trading gossip about the director, a man named Kristof, who was rumored to be a good man, the right sort of man. His views were too radical for words, and his plays were didactic enough to blind a horse. In Les Femmisérables, Kristof planned to build the barricades out of baby cribs and strollers. In place of muskets, the revolutionaries would brandish feather dusters. I rolled my eyes. He sounded like a typical northern man.
In Taxonomy of Men, my magnum opus, to be published after I am dead, I delineate the important differences between the Men of the North and the Men of the South, the most salient difference being that Southern men have personalities. See p. 701, “Les hommes du Sud are wicked, loud, and capricious. They retain the spontaneity of Pan. Untroubled by morals, they will cut the head off a rattlesnake, sleep with a teenager, call God a bitch, and go to church the next morning to weep with Christ in Gethsemane. Les hommes du Nord are twitchy, nervous, and moral. So intense is their desire to be unique and good that they invariably become commonplace and dull.”
So I wrote.
***
Kristof Mészáros stood on a field of wet grass. In the dawn, the grass was blue, not green-blue, not gray-blue; unmixedly blue, and Kristof wished he knew how to paint so that he could demonstrate the blueness of the field to a public skeptical about primary colors. But Kristof did not know how to paint. He was a bank clerk in St. Petersburg, and his skills began with procrastination and ended with algebra. His parents, back in Szeged, were proud of him for attaining this post, but they did not know how tedious it was, how menial and insulting, and he did not have the heart to tell them. To them, St. Petersburg was the shining capital of the world, full of money, fashionable plays, and excellent pastries. To Kristof, it was the same as Szeged, only colder, and with blander food.
A pistol pinched the skin of his hip. It was stuffed into his belt, and apparently inside his underwear, too. It felt absurd, like a theater prop. Nobody dueled anymore. He had never seen a duel. He had never even pointed a gun at someone. Once, his father had taken him into a dry scrubland outside Szeged to shoot rabbits, but they had used a slender rifle that emitted delicate puffs of smoke, and Kristof had missed everything except one unlucky songbird. He’d wondered what sort of bird it was, but the bullet had mangled it beyond taxonomy.
Kristof shivered. He hoped Pyotr would show up soon. Why was he friends with Pyotr, whom he did not like? He supposed it was because Pyotr had asserted that they were friends, and Kristof lacked the energy to contradict him. He was a little scared of Pyotr: tall, pockmarked, and war-obsessed. They were both clerks, but the menial and insulting nature of the job wrought different effects on Pyotr, who, as he toiled, fantasized about joining the Imperial Guard and shooting rockets at Turks.
Kristof did not know what to expect from a duel. He hoped Pyotr and his enemy would be reasonable and shoot their guns up into the air. The whole thing was embarrassing.
A pair of songbirds skittered toward Kristof along the surface of the grass. Their bellies must be chill with dew, Kristof thought. My feet are chill with dew. At this moment I should be warming my hands before the stove, and the other lodgers should be coughing and stamping on the far side of the wall. I should be nostalgic for the future, a future in which I have a family, a virtuous wife and two small, giggling children with quick smiles and pudgy fists. Then again, he thought, this morning I do not wish I had a family. If I had a family, I would be more afraid.
If I die, he reflected, my parents will be destitute. But this thought did not move him very much. His parents had been destitute before. They could do it again. Poverty did not humiliate them the way it did other people.
***
I was led into one of those gray featureless cubic rooms where important things happen. Ten women sat in folding chairs: Fantines in potentia; my competition. They smiled as I entered, and each smile was a toothy cage for hate. I was the youngest by far; my eyes were colorful; my hair was lustrous without chemical encouragement. They envied me.
In the director’s office, there was a single window that permitted a gray glow. The director and his associates were all male. I thought this was odd, considering the title of the play, but I delivered my monologue and sang my song. The men leaned forward. Gray, watery light surrounded them. They whispered, nodding.
I was asked to wait in yet another room, where a man sat across from me, reading a magazine, nipping from a steaming cup. He was slender, and his face was dominated by long, smooth eyelids. Noticing my gaze on his lids, he lowered his magazine and whispered hello. I said hello at the same volume. He smiled. The smile became a laugh. The laugh became a handshake. It was Kristof, the director. We exchanged names, pleasantries, looks. When he glanced at me, I had the feeling of being initiated into a secret society.
He asked me what I thought about the script. I asked him to clarify his question, and this pleased him so much that he invited me to a café for tea. It is not often, he said, that I meet a young woman with ears. He took me to a little bakery with stained glass windows. When I put a plop of cream into my tea, Kristof put his chin on his palm and watched me stir.
We went back to his apartment. Afterwards, sweaty on all surfaces, he lay caught in a net of light reflected by his aluminum refrigerator. In that underwater atmosphere, he was transformed into a beautiful object, a decorative motif, a pair of lavender shutters on Longitude Lane.
I said, Kristof do not take this personally but I love you. He rose on his elbow, scratching his hip thoughtfully.
I don’t think so, he said. As he said this, a magnificent ceiling fan was going round and round, making his armpit hair flutter.
What do you mean? I said.
I mean that we are caught in vanity. He waved his arm as if he meant the whole city. You would not have come home with me unless you were flattered by the image of yourself coming home with me. What you love is that image. Our time together has been vanity. This entire day has been vanity. I am simply more aware of this vanity, which is why I am trying to warn you. But warning you is its own kind of vanity, and being aware of that vanity while doing nothing about it is a third vanity, therefore I am sunk in a triple vanity and should not quadruple it by claiming to love you back, even if it is true. He smiled with his eyes. The magnificent ceiling fan went round and round. Are we on the same page? he asked.
I laid my cheek on his abdomen, blending our oils, and bit his stomach.
***
A figure hovered over the blue grass. It was coming from the direction of the city. Kristof strained to see, hoping for Pyotr’s rounded shoulders and officious waddle. But the figure was slender and gliding. Then a window in the mist opened and he saw a flash of blond hair. His heart hissed like a sausage hitting a skillet.
The opponent strode over the dawn grass and stopped fifty paces away. He was not wearing a hat, and his blond hair was wispily damp like a baby’s. Holding a pistol by the muzzle, he waved to Kristof, who felt a surge of embarrassment. Pyotr had failed to show. He felt responsible for Pyotr’s cowardice, soiled by association. Your friends are your fate. That’s what his father said.
What would happen now? What were the protocols? Must he shoot? See it through? This was the reason nobody dueled anymore. Too many rules, hollow rules, tiny and fragile like the bones of a sparrow. The opponent signaled that they should meet in the middle of the field. Kristof nodded and started walking. His feet went slowly through the wet grass. He slipped the gun out of his pocket so that they would both be holding one.
***
Can I make you a drink?
No, thank you. I am not of age.
He gave me a dissecting look, then got up and made himself a cocktail with Turkish Raki and orange juice. Using a knurled silver instrument, he stirred the drink three times clockwise. Then he went to the kitchen, hunched over a potted plant, and added mint.
His pajamas matched. His apartment was painstakingly organized. The scarves in his closet were organized according to color saturation. His silverware was actually silver, and it shone. A Book of Common Prayer lay dogeared on his bedside table. I sighed and spelunked in the pillows. His voice hummed through the muffle. What’s wrong? Do I need to say it? I love you, of course I love you, sorry about whatever I did, which I am sure was terrible. Please, let me into your pillow fort.
I refused. He ripped the blanket back, showering me with a blast of cold light.
***
This is stupid, Kristof called.
Very, the opponent agreed. My second hasn’t shown? Not that I’ve seen.
And Pyotr?
Don’t think he’s coming.
They stood in silence, guns dangling. They tried to speak at the same time.
I—
—sorry, you—
—talk—
—no, please, you—
—must we?
This from Kristof, whose heart banged against its bars. His entire body was filling with carbolic acid, starting with the hollows of his toes, up the marrow of his legs, and into his abdomen, accompanied by ominous gurgles.
Well, the opponent said, We did walk all the way out here.
***
I don’t love you anymore, is what I said.
He watched me, drink in hand. Good for you. But I could tell I had him on the ropes. We entered a four-second millennium of silence. Then he rushed to my side and grabbed my arm, gripping it too hard, whitening my flesh.
Why, he asked.
I think I’m done.
You think?
You exhibit…how can I put it?
Just put it, he said, squeezing.
Certain Northern tendencies.
But I’m from the South.
Where?
Cashiers, North Carolina. It’s in the mountains.
Is that really its name? I asked.
What are you talking about? Northern tendencies?
I’m not sure what it is, Kristof.
Get sure.
His grip tightened around my arm.
You’re hurting me.
Okay.
His eyes withdrew their softness.
***
Kristof was hit on the left side of the chest, and as he fell sideways into the grass, his brain came alive. Left! Left! Left! Sinistrum! Port! As though the region of his wound held mystic significance for him, as though being hit on the right side of his chest would have been better, as though the left side of his body was full of glass and silk, and every organ was too gemlike to mend, and it was his fault; he should have turned to take the bullet on his starboard hull; then things would not be so bad; he would not have nausea buffeting his stomach; he would not have waves of prickle-shock combing his scalp, shaving the nerves of his legs. And he would not be bleeding so much, so thick, so warm, so quick and irreversible like an embarrassment between the bad gauze of his fingers. It was his fault, la faute de Kristof, and he wished he was back in the dry scrub of Mészáros, back in the dry scrub where dust hung like shades, obscuring the trees, softening the sun, and he wished he was back with his father, smoking short cigarettes in the long evenings, watching dogs shove their snouts into stillness.
***
One day, after sudden lovemaking, we lay on the bed in the great sweat of July. I noticed an eyelash on the flat of Kristof ’s nose and, licking my thumb, removed it. He crossed his eyes. Now, in the changefulness of summer, I loved him again.
Make a wish, I said. When he uncrossed his eyes, he looked at my face for a long time, cradling it in his cool hands. We should have been more careful, he said. There was sadness in his voice, real sadness, sadness without alloy, sadness in its mineral form.
More careful? I asked in alarm.
I should have been more careful.
He revealed his nakedness, shrinking in the copper light.
***
Pyotr, Pyotr, Pyotr, he thought, as if his friend’s arrival would unshoot him, as if Pyotr could close the tunnel in his tissues, as if arteries could be clotted with a name.
He felt the pain crackle and roar, using his lungs as bellows, squeezing the wind from his chest, and he wheezed such an awful wheeze that the sound was a door swinging open, and through the door he could see himself as a boy, a soft-cheeked boy in a field of tall grass and buzzing insects, galloping on a mind-horse, slashing Turks with a whittled stick, and he felt tremendous paternal pity for the boy that was him, immense sadness for the heartbreak of growing up. A hot ball of desire like the molten core of the earth travelled from his bowels to his mouth and he felt its importance and tried to release it, help it, give it tongue. He wanted to tell the boy to stay in the field, hide, hide, lie flat in the grass and let himself be blanketed by grasshoppers and dusted with pollen, so that time’s vast machine would not see him, but when Kristof opened his mouth, a stream of blood dribbled into the grass.
***
You’re pregnant, he said in the same tone.
No, I’m not.
Trust me, I have instincts.
Oh, instincts.
But he was right.
Kristof tried to be a father. He really did try. He even stayed in New York for about six months. But he was a man of the Southern Mountains, un homme du monts du Sud, a man of cool, trickling hills, brindled trout and mountain laurel, rhododendron, lily, bear, and fox, and he slipped back to Cashiers, where he remains. He lives in the mountains with Pan, stomping his feet in the rotting leaves, sending vibrations into the caves, frightening bats who hang upside down in their leathery swaddle.
As for me, my life lost its yellow petals. I became a globe of seeds, and whatever I might have been—poet, courtesan, great Fantine—sank into the gloom of responsibility.
***
“Are you dying?” inquired the opponent. His blue eyes bobbed above Kristof.
The sun was higher now. The mist had gone. Kristof was dying. His face was in the grass. He studied individual blades. Ants and grasshoppers launched great expeditions. He saw the tiny hairs on their legs. After a while, the world rubbed itself to a nub of fact, and that fact was green. Kristof looked around, and green. His head sank back, and green. He tried to speak, and green. He closed his eyes, and green.