The Foreigners - Maxine Swann [54]
“Listen, Daddy,” she said. “I have a surprise.” I stepped from behind the pillar. “Ta-dah!” she said.
I can’t imagine he was happy. Of course he wanted her alone, to do what he would with her. But he remained composed. Or maybe she had also fed him thoughts about the three of us, his head crawling like mine with peculiar erotic scenes. I stepped forward and bowed very low. He bowed in response.
Inside, his desk by the window with its row of pipes, the operating-table lamp, the soft leather couch beneath it. Okay, so the guy had pretentious taste, but you had to admit his objects were nice. Did anybody ever come to appreciate them? The place gave off a solitary air, all dressed up and nowhere to go. The kitchen with that piece of pig on a stick.
We were dancing, twirling. It was a hot day, but cool inside, the AC on. The great man looked down at us from the portrait above, still the prizewinner in that likeness, as yet minus his present humiliation.
We were sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for our food. The great man was meek, humble, shuffling, again with his apron on, again serving us. At the specter of this, I suddenly felt sorry. “Come,” I said, “don’t you want to sit with us?”
His cringe was accompanied by a laugh, showing the otherwise invisible stained teeth. Suddenly, I felt a sort of horror. What had we done to him?
But the next moment, he was standing upright, with a saber. I remembered the dog coming after me. Was it possible that I had misunderstood everything? They were in this together, I was the prey?
“Leo,” I said. “Leo.” Urgently.
I needed to catch her eye. She looked at me, clutched my hand and laughed. That’s right, we were together, doing this together. It wasn’t a saber, but a knife. He was cutting the ham again, serving us ham. Now he had a corkscrew, he was opening a bottle of wine, telling us about the vineyard, the year, in his deep, melodious radio voice. She lifted her chin, her nose, tasted. She was trying to learn the art of wine-tasting, this, yes, she admired in him and wanted to learn. The little girl now for a moment the snobby, sophisticated woman. She tried to make her neck long. She had confessed once to me that she feared her neck was short. He watched, breathless, would she like it?
Oh, dear, her nose was twitching, what did it mean? Distaste? Disgust? His eyes were on her. She quivered a bit, her entire head on her neck quivering, then looked at him very seriously, gave a dry stern nod and took a second sip—she liked it! The nose-twitching, head-quivering were to her mind movements of refinement, signaling appreciation.
He looked at her, triumphant. Just as he’d said all along. Neither would ever find another so perfectly suited. This was why he wanted to buy an island in Tigre and make it her kingdom.
“What will you call the island in Tigre?” It suddenly occurred to me to ask.
How I liked their grandiose, elaborate imaginations. How bored I was with false, Protestant humility, a whole race stifled, cramped, craving attention but unable to solicit it, waiting for someone to come along and marvel over what they were hiding away. Yes, marvel at yourself, I thought, looking at them, that’s the way to live. Don’t wait for some other wretch to do it. And here in this moment I appreciated the idea of the island.
Still, I didn’t entirely understand what he was doing here. He wasn’t stupid. In his eyes was a wild look. He must have seen it himself in the mirror. He hadn’t ever met anyone like her. His exwife had been the opposite, a steady, tranquil person. This girl was playing with him. And he let himself be played with.
Looking more closely, I could also see that he was tired, a tired player. He had nothing like Leonarda’s stamina, ambition. His sense of enjoyment was different. Was it maybe even more intense, sweeter than ours? He was nearing fifty. Was this his last opportunity for something?
We moved to the living room. I asked him if he ever smoked all those pipes