Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [122]
And then, at a table in the corner, we spy the Happy Couple.
She is about forty, he about fifty. Or perhaps they are the same age and he has aged worse than she. They are toasting each other with Bellinis, locking arms, looking deep into each other’s eyes.
“Remember Saint-Paul-de-Vence in ’eighty-four?” he asks.
We don’t hear her reply; but from her smile, we know she does.
“Are they married, do you think?” I ask Julian.
“Never in a million years,” he says. “They live in the same city. They’re both married to different people. They see each other Wednesday afternoons and on holidays like this. For twenty years, they’ve come to Venice every September.”
“What a romantic story!” I say.
“But not better than sleeping in boxes, is it?”
“I wonder what the truth is. . . .”
“Better not to know,” says Julian.
“I want to know. I’m going to ask.” I get up, but Julian restrains me, pulling me back.
“I’ve made my living for forty years scoring these fictions,” Julian says. “I’ve created what we call romance. It’s all in the chord structure. Certain melodies pull at the heartstrings. Trust me. It’s better not to know.”
“For God’s sake, Julian, I just want to know if they’re married.”
“No you don’t,” he says. “It’s better not.”
“And if they are?”
“If they are, I’ll marry you, take care of you forever, and buy you your own island in the South Pacific.”
I get up and go over to the Happy Couple.
“Excuse me,” I say. “My friend and I have a curious bet. Please don’t think me rude—but are you married?”
“Yes,” says the woman.
“No,” says the man.
I go back to Julian and report her “yes.”
We sing our way along the Grand Canal, accompanied by accordionist, guitarist, fiddler. Singing in a boat again—this time with Julian—I am outrageously happy.
The wobbly palaces greet us upside down in the amazing moonlight. I think of Renzo and embrace Julian, as I might be embracing Renzo, thinking of Julian, and I realize that if I can hold on to myself I will have what it takes to make myself content for the rest of my life.
(Sane mind: You said it—two men adding up to one whole human being! Every woman’s cure for the blues!)
There will always be traveling companions on the way—or else there will be delicious solitude. But there is no excuse for fear. Singing with Julian along the Grand Canal, I dimly glimpse a life without my fear. Who would I be without it? Would I still be Leila?
(Sane mind: You would be Leila! You would have yourself!)
Sybille once made me deposit my fear in her metal box.
“I’ll keep it safe for you until you want it back,” she said. “You can have it back whenever you wish.”
Sybille is keeping my fear; my sane mind and I can go on without it.
That night, at the Gritti, Julian and I talk until dawn.
“I know that you’re having an affair with someone,” Julian says, “and really, it’s okay. I want you to be happy. You can tell me everything.”
“You already know about my gondolier,” I say.
“This is more than a gondolier,” says Julian.
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “Besides, once I tell you, the magic will be gone.”
“But if you don’t, you’re lying by omission. And that breaks our magic.”
“That’s the dilemma, isn’t it?”
“Let me tell you a story,” Julian says, “a story about my life that I’ve never told you because, until very recently, I had blocked it. . . .”
We settle into our special position, with our legs wrapped around each other.
“When I was a little boy in Toronto,” Julian begins, “my mother and father used to travel on the vaudeville circuit, and my older sister and I were left alone for long periods of time. My sister was only about fifteen, and very, very pretty—and in some ways she was the loneliest girl I ever knew. I must be about ten when this takes place—and just starting to be sexual. So horny all the time that I’m jumping out