Barney's Version - Mordecai Richler [58]
Boogie was adamant. “What do you mean, it’s your responsibility?”
“Well, it is, isn’t it?”
“You’re crazier than she is. Make her have an abortion.”
That evening I searched for Clara everywhere, and finally found her seated alone at La Coupole. I leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I’ve decided to marry you,” I said.
“Gee whiz. Wow. Don’t I even get to say yes or no?”
“We could consult your I Ching, if you like.”
“My parents won’t come. They would be mortified. Mrs. Panofsky. Sounds like a furrier’s wife. Or maybe the owner of a clothing store. Everything wholesale.”
I found us a fifth-floor apartment on the rue Notre-Dame-des-Champs, converted from four chambres de bonne, and we were married at the mairie in the Sixième. The bride wore a cloche hat, a ridiculous veil, an ankle-length black wool dress, and a white ostrich-feather boa. Asked if she would take me as her lawfully wedded husband, a stoned Clara winked at the official, and said, “I’ve got a bun in the oven. What would you do?” Boogie and Yossel were both in attendance and there were gifts. A bottle of Dom Perignon, four ounces of hashish implanted in knitted blue booties from Boogie; a set of six Hôtel George V sheets and bath towels from Yossel; a signed sketch and a dozen diapers from Leo; and an autographed copy of Merlin, featuring his first published story, from Terry McIver.
Making the arrangements for the wedding, I finally got a peek at Clara’s passport, and was startled to discover the name on it was Charnofsky. “Don’t worry,” she said. “You caught yourself a blue-blood shiksa. But when I was nineteen I ran off with him and we were married in Mexico. My art teacher. Charnofsky. It only lasted three months, but it cost me my trust fund. My father disinherited me.”
Once we moved into our apartment, Clara began to stay up into the early-morning hours, scribbling in her notebooks or concentrating on her nightmarish ink drawings. Then she slept in until two or three in the afternoon, slipped out of our apartment, and was not seen again until evening, when she would join our table at the Mabillon or Café Sélect, her manner delinquent.
“As a matter of interest, Mrs. Panofsky, where were you all afternoon?”
“I don’t remember. Walking, I suppose.” And then, digging into her voluminous skirts, she would say, “I brought you a gift,” and would hand me a tin of pâté de foie gras, a pair of socks, and, on one occasion, a sterling silver cigarette lighter. “If it’s a boy,” she said, “I’m going to call him Ariel.”
“Now that comes trippingly off the tongue,” said Boogie. “Ariel Panofsky.”
“I vote for Othello,” said Leo, his smile sly.
“Fuck you, Leo,” said Clara, her eyes hot, suffering one of her unaccountable but increasingly frequent mood changes. Then she turned on me. “Maybe Shylock would be most appropriate, all things considered?”
Surprisingly, once Clara was over her morning sickness, playing house together turned out to be fun. We shopped for kitchenware and bought a crib. Clara made a mobile to hang over it and painted rabbits and chipmunks and owls on the walls of our nursery. I did the cooking, of course. Spaghetti bolognese, the pasta strained with a colander. Chopped chicken liver salad. And, my pièce de résistance, breaded veal chops garnished with potato latkes and apple sauce. Boogie, Leo with one or another of his girls, and Yossel often came to dinner, and once even Terry McIver, but Clara refused to tolerate Cedric, who had failed to appear at our wedding. “Why not?” I asked.
“Never mind. I just don’t want him here.”
She also objected to Yossel.
“He has a bad aura. He doesn’t like me. And I want to know what you two are up to.”
So I settled her on the sofa and brought her a glass of wine. “I’ve got to go to Canada,” I said.
“What?”
“I’ll only be gone for three weeks. A month at most. Yossel will bring you money every week.”
“You’re not coming back.”
“Clara, don’t start.”
“Why Canada?”
“Yossel and I are going into the cheese-export business