Any Woman's Blues_ A Novel of Obsession - Erica Jong [44]
7
The Painter and the Pimp
Lawd, I really don’t think no man’s love can last;
They’ll love you to death, then treat you like a thing of the past.
—Bessie Smith
Emmie and Dart and I have an uneasy breakfast. Emmie makes it—toasted bagels, jam, eggs, fresh coffee, peaches. Though she doesn’t impose her presence between me and Dart, I feel it, and so does he. Emmie is on my side. She says nothing, does nothing (but feed us a delicious breakfast), and yet Dart, especially, resents her because he senses that she loosens his hold on me. He would like to tell her to go, but of course he cannot. If I am alone in the house, waiting for him to come and go at will, I am wholly at his mercy. With Emmie there, I am not.
This is the paradox of weak men and strong women: they drain us of our strength in the hopes of equalizing the struggle. But since they cannot absorb our strength, they accomplish only the negative goal of draining us. In a society that gives the official power to men, the line between mental and physical abuse is a very fine one. Who can discover where one ends and the other begins? Dart never beat me (except in sexual play) nor put a gun to my head, but the weapons he kept in the house, and his wholly unpredictable comings and goings, accomplished the same end.
Emmie: “So how’s New York, Dart?”
Dart (sullen): “The same.”
Emmie: “What have you been up to?”
Dart (resentful): “Oh, this and that.”
Leila: “Tell Emmie about your new project, Dart.”
Dart (looking up): “The show of new artists? The building we’re buying?” (Dart always has a dozen projects, none of which reach fruition and all of which require infusions of capital—my capital.)
Leila: “Whichever.”
Dart: “Well—the building is a giant pain in the ass. None of the workmen show up on time, the building inspectors expect bigger and bigger bribes, and the city harasses us with summonses. I’d only do this for you, baby.” (A soulful look.)
Leila: “I know—and don’t think I don’t appreciate it.” (This absurd statement should have remained stuck in my throat, because I know the whole project for the sham it is: a futile attempt to buck up Dart’s self-esteem.)
Emmie: “But isn’t it exciting that you’re renovating the building?”
Dart: “Exciting to you, exciting to her—since neither of you has to be there.”
Emmie: “I thought you enjoyed construction.”
Dart: “Sure. I love thankless work. . . .” (A reproachful look—to which I actually react with guilt. Dart wanted me to buy the building he now complains of so bitterly. I end up responsible for both his idleness and his labor, his stardom and his obscurity, his success and his failure.)
Leila: “But, darling, you’re so good at what you do.”
Dart: “I want to be the best man for you, but you’re never satisfied. Whatever I do, it’s not enough—I can’t win for losing!”
Leila: “That’s not true.”
Dart: “Yes it is—you’re so critical of me. You don’t say it, but I feel it. It’s always there.”
Emmie: “Think I’ll go back to osteoporosis.” (Slipping away to the guest room.)
Leila: “What on earth are you talking about?”
Dart: “I try to do everything I can for you—pose for you, renovate your property—and it’s never enough. Never. You don’t take me seriously. For years I’ve been begging you to marry me, and you won’t do it. How can I take myself seriously if you won’t marry me? You treat me like your gigolo, not your man. No wonder I feel like a pimp, like a stud, like a fucking consort. You deball me—and then you waltz off and paint another still life.”
I get up and put my arms around him. “The Rules of Love” are thundering in my head: “It is unseemly to love those whom one would be ashamed to marry.” As if he could hear this, Dart pushes me away.
Dart: “Do you know what happened to me yesterday? I was walking through Harlem, on my way to get some building supplies”—read: drugs—“and a big black man yells out at me: ‘You a pimp, boy, and you don’t even know