Scissors (7 page)
“They are?”
“Especially when they’re dead.”
“Why?”
“Because they get it into their heads that they must protect their husband’s work.”
“And they do it wrong?”
“It’s a profession. Just like widowhood’s a profession. But it’s not the same profession.”
“Being a widow’s a profession?”
“Being a writer’s widow is. A writer’s widow is a full-time manager of her late husband’s posterity. It turns into an obsession. Such women lose all judgment and make some … disastrous decisions. What does Marianne know about editing short stories?”
“Oh, uh, she’s a schoolteacher.”
“…”
“And also a waitress, to pay the rent. Supplemental income.”
“What does she know about editing?”
“We’ve talked about my stories together.”
“They’re extraordinary, those stories of yours!”
“Thanks.”
“The only one I left out is ‘Why Are You Crying?’ I didn’t have time to look at it closely.”
“But you changed the title.”
“I have to read it again.”
“I hope you like it.”
“Not to worry, not to worry. Let’s go back to—”
“Your cuts.”
“We don’t know each other very well. Our paths crossed a long time ago, and we’ve just gotten back into contact.”
“Lucky for me.”
“And we haven’t done anything yet, the two of us. We haven’t yet accomplished anything.”
“Still, you’re one of the three editors—”
“Every time I publish a story, I put my reputation on the line.”
“Really?”
“If only writers … if they would only see things my way, there wouldn’t be all this waste.”
“Waste?”
“These obese books, this useless fat. You know what they call me? ‘The Captain of—’ ”
“ ‘Scissors,’ they call you. Is that a compliment?”
“No. It’s resentment. It’s misplaced pride.”
“Ah.”
“The author’s worst enemy.”
“Along with his widow.”
“Along with his wife, Raymond. His wife who interferes in the editing process. What do you think of these stories?”
“Which ones?”
“These here.”
“The short version.”
“Don’t say ‘version.’ Don’t say ‘short.’ Take them as they are.”
“They’re not how they were. They’re—”
“Another beer, Miss Lovely!”
“I was going to say ‘drained of sap.’ ”
“You were going to say it. You said it.”
“Marianne thinks so too.”
“I’d like to know her. I’d like to meet her. You all could come to dinner with Lorraine and … no, wait, I’m getting divorced next week.”
“Marianne thinks about it the way I do. She’d tell you the same thing.”
“I have a different idea of sap, Raymond. Different from yours and Marianne’s.”
“We could make a compromise.”
“Of course, because I’m very fond of these stories.”
“We could come to an understanding about the cuts.”
“After all, you want to be published … no need to say anything, of course you do. Who doesn’t dream of being published? Who? Tell me who.”
“Nobody I know.”
“And when you’re not writing and not drinking, you go trout fishing, you said? The countryside, what a blessing.”
I should have kept my mouth shut. Now he feels trapped. I used to think … I thought he wanted my opinion. He always asks me for it. I’ve often thought that if he ever reached anything like the beginning of a success, I’d be there to encourage him. Just as I was there to support him when nothing was working. So what do I tell him when I see those cuts? I say, “You’re going to stand up for yourself, aren’t you? You’re not going to give in?” As if he was getting ready to betray me. I wanted to defend his writing. I’ve been defending his writing for ten years, for ten years I’ve been supporting him … There were so many words crossed out. Not just words, not just sentences, but whole pages. As if Raymond’s short stories were made up of a few words and many long silences. But his stories, they’re him. They’re him spilling out. Who does this Douglas think he is? He says—he dared to say, “You have too much heart, Raymond.” As if he was going to have to relieve him of some of it.
Nobody wants his stories, so he feels trapped. If he refuses to accept the cuts, he loses a chance of being published. And we lose the money. But if he gives in, he’s going to feel like a coward.
In the past, there was Raymond, me, and between us,
Raymond’s writing. Now there’s someone else. Douglas and his magazine. Is there any room left for me?
Is that what I’ve become, one person too many?
Suppose he’s right? Suppose he sees something I can’t see? Because there’s too much of me in there, too much of my life in every one of my stories. Douglas sees a writer in me. He doesn’t talk to me like he’s talking to a drunk. But in Marianne’s eyes, there’s nothing I can do, I see myself as a drunkard, I see myself as a nasty guy. A bastard whose stories make him better.
Another Scotch, please!
Being far from Marianne doesn’t agree with me. This town doesn’t agree with me, either. Everybody here looks as though they’re right.
As soon as someone starts talking around here, I get the impression it’s to lay the blame on me.
RAYMOND
“Why come into a bar if you want to be alone?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve been watching you for the past few minutes. You talked to yourself the whole time. What’s your name?”
“Raymond.”
“What do you do for a living? You sell cars?”
“More like spare parts.”
“You see? I’ve got a sixth sense. I knew you were going to sell me something.”
“I didn’t say I had anything to—”
“My car broke down outside. You could start it.”
“…”
“No?”
“I can always try.”
Hello? Hello, I … I called an hour ago. Room number six. He’s still not there? And he didn’t leave his key at the desk? All right.
I have to tell you … I was very moved when I heard your voice. I haven’t stopped thinking about it. You have my mother’s voice, if she were black. She’s sick at the moment. Of course, you’re right, I hear her voice everywhere. But yours is special. No, don’t say that, you’re not just anybody. You’re special. You have understanding.
It’s one o’clock in the morning and he’s still not back. He hasn’t returned to his room. Should I call the police? No, of course not. They’d laugh in my face. Sometimes Raymond, I mean my husband, doesn’t come home at night. That’s no reason to call the police. Especially as he may well be in a cell, sleeping off his liquor. But that’s here. In a big city, it’s another story. Every hour he’s gone … well, you understand
me. I appreciate your voice and the fact that you haven’t hung up on me. I appreciate it more than you think.
Right, that’s what I have to tell myself. He’s with a man, the editor he went to see. If he’s not with him, he must be in a bar, and what can happen to him in a bar? Doesn’t a man alone in a big city have a right to the comfort of bars?
But truly, if my mother were black, she’d have your voice.
Her name’s Jeanine. I wasn’t able to start her car. Now she’s calling me “Smooth Talker.” She invited me to spend the night with her. To seek her forgiveness, she said. I could tell by her tense face that it would be best for me to accept. I didn’t have enough money left for cab fare anyway.
She lives in the suburbs. A gabled house with tall guillotine windows.
“Have a seat, Smooth Talker.”
She served me one beer and then another. A little later, I found myself in her bed. The bedroom was upstairs. The wallpaper looked about a hundred years old. In front of the bed was a chest of drawers with a three-paneled mirror on top. My toes were reflected in the central panel.
Jeanine stayed in the bathroom a long time. I heard her cursing the pipes. I said, “Plumbing problems?”
I saw my toes moving in the mirror.
“Goddamned pipes!”
I sat up straight. She came out of the bathroom. A strange
smell accompanied her. A scent of dried flowers, Jeanine’s smell.
Some branches projected their shadows onto the curtain. There must have been a big garden outside. She came close to me. She put her hand on my penis and I thought,
Petunias
. A story came together in my head.
I don’t know how long I slept. When I opened my eyes, she was lying on the edge of the bed with her back turned to me. I ran my eyes up the length of her spinal column. It was like a delicate mechanism nestled under the surface of her skin.
She heard my breathing.
“What do you know how to do, Smooth Talker?”
I searched for a reply.
“What can you do with your hands?”
“Oh, a lot of things.”
“For example?”
“Pick a trade, any trade. You’ll see—I’ve done every sort of work.”
“Except for auto mechanic.”
“Except for that, I admit.”
It seemed to me that she was smiling. I encouraged her: “Well? Pick one.”
“Basketball player.”
“Good guess!”
“Professional?”
“Semiprofessional.”