A Widow for One Year
Contents
A Sound Like Someone Trying Not To Make A Sound
Why Panic At Ten O'Clock In The Morning?
How The Writer's Assistant Became A Writer
The Authority Of The Written Word
Ruth Remembers Learning To Drive
Ruth Gives Her Father A Driving Lesson
A Widow For The Rest Of Her Life
Ruth's Diary, And Selected Postcards
Followed Home From The Flying Food Circus
Sergeant Hoekstra Finds His Witness
In Which Eddie O'Hare Falls In Love Again
Better Than Being In Paris With A Prostitute
In Which Eddie And Hannah Fail To Reach An Agreement
A Happy Couple, Their Two Unhappy Friends
A Conversation with John Irving
Reading Group Questions and Topics...
For Janet,
a love story
“. . . as for this little lady,
the best thing I can wish her is
a
little misfortune.
”
—W
ILLIAM
M
AKEPEACE
T
HACKERAY
Acknowledgments
I am grateful for my many visits to Amsterdam during the four years I spent writing this novel, and I’m especially indebted to the patience and generosity of brigadier Joep de Groot of the District 2 police; without Joep’s advice, this book couldn’t have been written. I’m also indebted to the help given me by Margot Alvarez, formerly of De Rode Draad—an organization for prostitutes’ rights in Amsterdam. And most of all—for the time and care that he devoted to the manuscript—I want to thank Robbert Ammerlaan, my Dutch publisher. Regarding the Amsterdam sections in this book, I owe these three Amsterdammers incalculable thanks. For what I may have managed to get right, the credit belongs to them; if there are errors, the fault is mine.
As for the numerous parts of this novel
not
set in Amsterdam, I have relied on the expertise of Anna von Planta in Geneva, Anne Freyer in Paris, Ruth Geiger in Zurich, Harvey Loomis in Sagaponack, and Alison Gordon in Toronto. I must also cite the attention to detail that was ably demonstrated by three outstanding assistants: Lewis Robinson, Dana Wagner, and Chloe Bland: I commend Lewis and Dana and Chloe for the irreproachable carefulness of their work.
An oddity worth mentioning: the chapter called “The Red and Blue Air Mattress” was previously published—in slightly different form, and in German—in the
S¸ddeutsche Zeitung,
July 27, 1994, under the title “Die blaurote Luftmatratze.”
— J.I.
I
SUMMER
1958
The Inadequate Lamp Shade
One night when she was four and sleeping in the bottom bunk of her bunk bed, Ruth Cole woke to the sound of lovemaking—it was coming from her parents’ bedroom. It was a totally unfamiliar sound to her. Ruth had recently been ill with a stomach flu; when she first heard her mother making love, Ruth thought that her mother was throwing up.
It was not as simple a matter as her parents having separate bedrooms; that summer they had separate houses, although Ruth never saw the other house. Her parents spent alternate nights in the family house with Ruth; there was a rental house nearby, where Ruth’s mother or father stayed when they weren’t staying with Ruth. It was one of those ridiculous arrangements that couples make when they are separating, but before they are divorced—when they still imagine that children and property can be shared with more magnanimity than recrimination.
When Ruth woke to the foreign sound, she at first wasn’t sure if it was her mother or her father who was throwing up; then, despite the unfamiliarity of the disturbance, Ruth recognized that measure of melancholy and contained hysteria which was often detectable in her mother’s voice. Ruth also remembered that it was her mother’s turn to stay with her.
The master bathroom separated Ruth’s room from the master bedroom. When the four-year-old padded barefoot through the bathroom, she took a towel with her. (When she’d been sick with the stomach flu, her father had encouraged her to vomit in a towel.) Poor Mommy! Ruth thought, bringing her the towel.
In the dim moonlight, and in the even dimmer and erratic light from the night-light that Ruth’s father had installed in the bathroom, Ruth saw the pale faces of her dead brothers in the photographs on the bathroom wall. There were photos of her dead brothers throughout the house, on all the walls; although the two boys had died as teenagers, before Ruth was born (before she was even conceived), Ruth felt that she knew these vanished young men far better than she knew her mother or father.
The tall, dark one with the angular face was Thomas; even at Ruth’s age, when he’d been only four, Thomas had had a leading man’s kind of handsomeness—a combination of poise and thuggery that, in his teenage years, gave him the seeming confidence of a much older man. (Thomas had been the driver of the doomed car.)
The younger, insecure-looking one was Timothy; even as a teenager, he was baby-faced and appeared to have just been startled by something. In many of the photographs, Timothy seemed to be caught in a moment of indecision, as if he were perpetually reluctant to imitate an incredibly difficult stunt that Thomas had mastered with apparent ease. (In the end, it was something as basic as driving a car that Thomas failed to master sufficiently.)
When Ruth Cole entered her parents’ bedroom, she saw the naked young man who had mounted her mother from behind; he was holding her mother’s breasts in his hands and humping her on all fours, like a dog, but it was neither the violence nor the repugnance of the sexual act that caused Ruth to scream. The four-year-old didn’t know that she was witnessing a sexual act—nor did the young man and her mother’s activity strike Ruth as entirely unpleasant. In fact, Ruth was relieved to see that her mother was
not
throwing up.
And it wasn’t the young man’s nakedness that caused Ruth to scream; she had seen her father and her mother naked—nakedness was not hidden among the Coles. It was the young man himself who made Ruth scream, because she was certain he was one of her dead brothers; he looked so much like Thomas, the confident one, that Ruth Cole believed she had seen a ghost.
A four-year-old’s scream is a piercing sound. Ruth was astonished at the speed with which her mother’s young lover dismounted; indeed, he removed himself from both the woman and her bed with such a combination of panic and zeal that he appeared to be
propelled
—it was almost as if a cannonball had dislodged him. He fell over the night table, and, in an effort to conceal his nakedness, removed the lamp shade from the broken bedside lamp. As such, he seemed a less menacing sort of ghost than Ruth had first judged him to be; furthermore, now that Ruth took a closer look at him, she recognized him. He was the boy who occupied the most distant guest room, the boy who drove her father’s car—the boy who worked for her daddy, her mommy had said. Once or twice the boy had driven Ruth and her babysitter to the beach.
That summer, Ruth had three different nannies; each of them had commented on how pale the boy was, but Ruth’s mother had told her that some people just didn’t like the sun. The child had never before seen the boy without his clothes, of course; yet Ruth was certain that the young man’s name was Eddie and that he
wasn’t
a ghost. Nevertheless, the four-year-old screamed again.
Her mother, still on all fours on her bed, looked characteristically unsurprised; she merely viewed her daughter with an expression of discouragement edged with despair. Before Ruth could cry out a third time, her mother said, “Don’t scream, honey. It’s just Eddie and me. Go back to bed.”
Ruth Cole did as she was told, once more passing those photographs—more ghostly-seeming now than her mother’s fallen ghost of a lover. Eddie, while attempting to hide himself with the lamp shade, had been oblivious to the fact that the lamp shade, being open at both ends, afforded Ruth an unobstructed view of his diminishing penis.