Fates and Furies (25 page)

The hostess laughed, but it was a half-shocked laugh. Mathilde’s hand went out and clicked the radio off hard.

“M.?” he said.

She took a breath, and he watched her rib cage compress as she let it out. “Not your story,” she said. She turned around. She was not smiling.

“Of course it was,” he said. “I remember it vividly.” He did. He
could feel the hot mud on his legs, the horror dissolving to a kind of tenderness when he found the small black leech on his skin.

“Nope,” she said, and took the ice cream out of the freezer, the cobbler out of the oven, the bowls and spoons outside.

As he ate, a slow bad feeling spread up from his gut. He called for a car to take the other men back. By the time it drove off, he knew Mathilde was right.

He came into the bathroom in the middle of Mathilde’s ablutions and sat on the side of the tub. “I’m so sorry,” he said.

She shrugged, spat foam into the sink.

“To be fair, it was a leech,” he said. “A story about a leech.”

She rubbed lotion on her hands, one, the other, looking at him in the mirror, and said, “My loneliness. Not yours. You’ve always had friends. It’s not that you stole my story, it’s that you stole my
friend
.” And she laughed at herself, but when he came into bed, her light was out, and she was on her side, and though he put his hand on her hip, then between her legs, and kissed her neck, and whispered, “What’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours,” she was already sleeping or, worse, she was pretending to be asleep.

THE SIRENS
(Unfinished)

Too much pain. It would kill her.

Mathilde put the manuscript in the archival box without reading it, and the movers carried it away.

  
  
9

Scene: A gallery. Cavernous, shadowy, gilded birch trees foresting the walls.
Tristan und Isolde
on the sound system. Piratical crowd drinking from the bars in all four corners of the room, all bloodlust and hunger. Sculptures on plinths uplit in blue: large, amorphous, molded-steel forms that resolve into terrified faces, titled
The End
. The gallery, the art, brings to mind Dürer’s woodcuts of the apocalypse. The artist was Natalie. She was posthumously celebrated; a photo of her was blown up, pale, buzz-cut, triumphant over the scene.

Two bartenders during a lull. One young, one middle-aged, both handsome.

MIDDLE-AGED:
 . . . telling you, these days I swear by juice. Kale, carrot, and ginger—

YOUNG:
Who’s that? Tall man, just came in, with the scarf. Oh my stars.

MIDDLE-AGED
[
Smiling
]
:
That? Lancelot Satterwhite. You know who he is.

YOUNG:
The
playwright
? Oh my god. I
have
to meet him. Maybe he’ll give me a role. Never know. Oh, man. He kind of sucks up all the light in the room, am I right?

MIDDLE-AGED:
You should’ve seen him when he was young. Demigod. At least he thought so.

YOUNG:
You know him? Let me touch your arm.

MIDDLE-AGED:
He was my understudy one summer. Years ago. Shakespeare in the Park. We were Ferdinand.
My language! Heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech,
et cetera. Though I always thought of him more as a Falstaff than anything. So gabby. Arrogant as hell. He never made a go of the acting thing, though. There was something just, I don’t know, unconvincing about him. Also, he was far too tall and then he got fat and then skinny again, apparently. It was kind of pitiful. Though, I mean, he did fine in the end. Sometimes I wonder if I should have taken a separate path, you know? If I got stuck, my moderate success propelling me moderately, all that. Better to flame out, try something new. I don’t know. You’re not listening.

YOUNG:
Sorry. I’m just. Look at his wife. She’s stunning.

MIDDLE-AGED:
Her? She’s bloodless, all bones. I think she’s hideous. But if you want to meet Lotto, you got to go through her.

YOUNG:
Huh. I think she’s unbelievably beautiful. Is he . . . faithful?

MIDDLE-AGED:
Two camps on that one. Hard to tell. He’ll flirt until you’re a blob of goo and make you fall in love, then look all befuddled when you come on to him. Happened to all of us.

YOUNG:
To you?

MIDDLE-AGED:
Sure.

[
They look at the froglike man who has sidled up, who is now listening, the ice in his glass clicking.
]

CHOLLIE:
You, boy. Need you to do a piece of work. Easy hundred bucks. What do you say?

YOUNG:
Depends on what it is, sir.

CHOLLIE:
You need to accidentally spill a glass of red wine on
Satterwhite’s wife. All over that white dress, really get it in there. Bonus is, while you’re at it, you’ll get close enough to Satterwhite to slip a note in his pocket. See where it takes you. Maybe he’ll call you for an audition or something. You in?

YOUNG:
Five hundred.

CHOLLIE:
Two. There are seven other bartenders in the room.

YOUNG:
Done. Let me borrow your pen. [
He takes Chollie’s fountain pen, scribbles on a napkin, tucks it into his pocket. Looks at the pen, tucks it in, too.
] This is
so
awful. [
He laughs, puts wine on a tray, speeds off.
]

MIDDLE-AGED:
What are that kid’s chances of scoring with Lancelot, I wonder.

CHOLLIE:
Less than zero. Lotto’s as straight as a stick and sickeningly monogamous, too. But it’s fun to watch. [
Laughs.
]

MIDDLE-AGED:
What are you up to, Chollie?

CHOLLIE:
Why are you talking to me? You don’t know me.

MIDDLE-AGED:
I do, actually. I used to go to the Satterwhites’ parties in the nineties. We’ve had some conversations in our time.

CHOLLIE:
Oh. Well, everybody went to those.

[
There is a shattering of glass, and the crowd sound hushes briefly.
]

MIDDLE-AGED:
Mathilde took that gracefully. Of course she did. Ice queen. Off to the bathroom with salt and seltzer. And you’re right, everybody went to those parties. And everybody wondered why you were Lancelot’s best friend. Brought nothing to the table, really, did you. So unpleasant.

CHOLLIE:
Well, I’ve known Lotto the longest, you know, all the way from when he was this skinny Florida Cracker with
a serious zit problem. Who would have thought? These days he’s famous and I own a helicopter. But I can see that you’ve really come into your own with this mixology pursuit of yours. So, you know. Congratulations.

MIDDLE-AGED:
I—

CHOLLIE:
Any
way, glad we got all caught up, blah blah. I have something to do. [
Moves off toward the center of the room, where Young is dabbing at Lancelot’s pants with a paper napkin.
]

LANCELOT:
No, buddy, I’m serious, I don’t believe you got any wine on my pants. But thank you. No. Please stop. Please. Stop. Stop.

YOUNG:
Tell your wife how sorry I am, Mr. Satterwhite. Please send me the bill.

ARIEL:
Nonsense, nonsense. I will replace the dress. Back to your station. [
Young exits.
]

LANCELOT:
Thank you, Ariel. Don’t worry about Mathilde. It’s an old dress, I think. By the way, this is spectacular, all of this. As if you made an exact replica of the inside of my brain. Actually, I saw it was Natalie and dragged Mathilde here, though she wasn’t feeling well. Natalie was a friend from college, we had to come. So tragic, her accident. I’m glad you’re doing her honor. To tell you the truth, I think Mathilde may still feel a little strange about quitting the gallery so suddenly when she got the dating-website job all those years ago.

ARIEL:
I understood that she’d leave me one day. All my best girls do.

LANCELOT:
I think she misses art, though. She makes me go to museums wherever we are in the world. It’ll be good for you two to reconnect.

ARIEL:
One can never have too many old friends. In any event, I’ve heard something about you. Someone told me you’ve come into a shocking inheritance. Is this true?

LANCELOT
[
Sucking in his breath sharply.
]
:
My mother died four months ago. No, five. True.

ARIEL:
I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be flip, Lotto. I knew you were estranged and didn’t think through what I was saying. Please forgive me.

LANCELOT:
We were estranged, yes. I hadn’t seen her for decades. Sorry. I’m not sure, really, why I’m getting all misty. It’s been five months. Long enough to have gotten over grieving for a mother who never loved me.

CHOLLIE
[
Stepping near.
]
:
If your mother never loved you, it was because your mother was a loveless cunt.

LANCELOT:
Chollie, hello! He is deformed, crooked, old and sere; ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind; stigmatical in making, worse in mind. My best friend.

CHOLLIE:
You can shove your Shakespeare up your ass, Lotto. God, I’m sick of it.

LANCELOT:
Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me.

ARIEL:
Wouldn’t be much use up there. Shakespeare in the dark.

CHOLLIE:
Oh, Ariel. Good effort, man. You’ve always been so almost funny.

ARIEL:
Funny thing to say, Charles, when we hardly know each other. You’ve bought a few paintings from me in the last year, but that’s not enough for you to explain to me how I’ve always been.

CHOLLIE:
You and me? Oh, no, we’re ancient friends. I’ve known you for so long. You don’t remember, but I met you
in the city long ago. All the way back when Mathilde and you were an item.

LANCELOT:
[
Long pause.
] An item? Mathilde and Ariel? What?

CHOLLIE:
Was I not supposed to say that? Sorry. Oh, well, ancient history. You’ve been married a million years, doesn’t matter. Those canapés are breaking my willpower. Excuse me. [
Chases off after a waiter with a tray.
]

LANCELOT:
An item?

ARIEL:
Well. Yes. I thought you knew Mathilde and I . . . were involved.

LANCELOT:
Involved?

ARIEL:
If it helps, it was purely business. At least for her.

LANCELOT:
Business? You were a, I guess, a patron? Oh, I see! You mean at the gallery. When I was trying to act. Failing mostly. Yes, it’s true. You supported us financially then for years, thank god. Did I ever thank you? [
Laughs with relief.
]

ARIEL:
No, well. I’d been her, ah, well, lover. Boyfriend. We’d had an arrangement. I’m sorry. This is awkward. I thought you and Mathilde had no secrets. Otherwise I wouldn’t have said a word.

LANCELOT:
We don’t. Have secrets.

ARIEL:
Of course. Oh, dear. If it helps, nothing has happened since. And she broke my heart. But I’m a million years beyond that. It doesn’t matter.

LANCELOT:
Wait. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait, wait.

ARIEL
[
Pausing for a very long time, getting more and more agitated.
]
:
I should get back to—

LANCELOT
[
Booming.
]
:
Stay where you are. You have seen Mathilde naked? You have made love to my wife? Sex? There has been sex?

ARIEL:
It’s so long ago. It doesn’t matter.

LANCELOT:
Answer me.

ARIEL:
Yes. We were involved for four years. Listen, Lotto, I’m sorry this was such a surprise. But it’s between you and Mathilde now. You won, you got her, I lost. I have to get back to my guests. I can’t tell you how little this matters in the long run. You know where to find me if you need to talk. [
Exits.
]

[
Lancelot stands alone in a pocket of his fame, the crowd circling respectfully but nobody nearing. His face is blue in the light.
]

MATHILDE
[
Breathless, transparent circle on her dress where the wine had stained her.
]
:
Here you are. Ready to go yet? I can’t believe you somehow maneuvered me into stepping into this gallery again. Christ, talk about a sign we should never have come. Lucky this is silk, and the wine just sort of beaded off— Lotto? Lotto Satterwhite. Lotto! Are you okay? Hello? My love? [
Touches his face.
]