Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [104]
Dart: “We should take a trip together.”
Leila: “When?”
Dart: “I don’t know—we could manage it.”
Leila: “What about Little Miss Mean Eyes? Sorry. Her name?”
Dart: “Sylvie.”
I remember all the messages Natasha took from a Sylvie. They go back two or possibly three years. My gorge rises. I cross my legs in my spike sandals and watch Dart get turned on. Two can play this game as well as one.
Leila: “Wouldn’t Sylvie be suspicious?”
Dart: “She gives me lots of space.”
No choice, I guess. Mmm. Being the coveted mistress rather than the live-in lady has a certain charm. Suddenly, just by being unavailable, I become the prize. Dart has an erection under his khaki shorts. It turns me on. I hear Sybille’s voice saying: “That’s his profession—having an erection.” But what does she know about The Land of Fuck? A lot, probably.
We make plans for our mythical trip. I know it’s mythical—does he? I will tell my proper millionaire I’m going away to do research (Dart doesn’t have to know I broke up with him weeks ago), and he will tell Sylvie something (he never bothers much about excuses), and we will go . . . where? We can’t decide.
Dart (romantic): “Venice again. Venice again with you. I’d cut off one nut for Venice again with you.”
Leila (practical): “It would ruin our stay in Venice.”
Dart: “Or Wyoming. Remember Wyoming?”
Leila: “Who could ever forget? And Dubrovnik.”
Dart (smiling his rehearsed smile): “Hong Kong.”
We speak of everything: the fictitious trip, my fictitious fiancé, his (perhaps also fictitious) fiancée, his million (as usual) projects. Why am I not more angry at him? Because I have discharged my anger in the Pandora’s Box collage? Because I still love him? Because, having passed through some barrier in myself, I have transcended anger? But in my sane mind I do not trust him. And I know I won’t sleep with him.
Am I teasing him or teasing myself?
Dart: “You look so beautiful.”
Leila (thinking of Nighttown): “It must be the life I’m leading.”
Dart: “How’s your Program?”
Leila: “I’ve had slips—but it’s also changed my life. I get furious at the Program a lot, rebel against it. I know there’s more to life than church basements—but it’s also a gift. It’s sent me back to Zen, to Thoreau, to meditation. Things I dabbled in years ago but never understood at all. And perhaps am only beginning to . . .” (I realize I am saying too much, turning him off. He partly left because I needed to get sober.) “This stuff is better left unsaid. How’s yours?”
Dart: “I have a beer now and then.”
Leila (knowing I shouldn’t ask): “Do you go to meetings?”
Dart: “The Program infuriates me. All those people substituting one addiction for another. I wouldn’t get drunk with those people—why should I get sober with them!”
Leila (changing the subject): “What does Sylvie call you?”
Dart: “She calls me D.D. or Darton-Darton. . . . Sometimes she calls me Trick ’n’ Treat.”
Leila (grimly): “She sounds funny.”
Dart (a tear running down his cheek): “At least Sylvie and I are both struggling together. With you, I was always a seed in the shadow of your forest. I never felt equal. I was blocked.”
Leila (knowing the bullshit for what it is, yet also feeling his pain): “Darling, I understand; I understand everything.”
And I do. I even know that in some strange way this is much harder for him than for me—though he has a new lover and I don’t, though he supposedly abandoned me, though my friends would say he used me.
Not true.
Ada has taught me that we use each other, that we both give and both take, that we both create the psychodrama.
Was it a fair exchange? Who knows? As I often say to the twins, “Life is not fair.”
Dart: “People are so cruel. They love to see love fail. It breaks my heart to run into our old friends.”
Leila: “Me too.”
I know what he means. The gloating when love breaks down is almost worse than the breakdown itself. All those people so eager to tell you the worst about your former lover. Why can’t they shut up?
We kiss when we say goodbye. The kiss doesn’t quite work. The continents