The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [109]
“That chastity belt was the most horrifying thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” Mitchell said later, over dinner at a budget restaurant.
“That’s why they call them the Dark Ages,” Larry said.
“That was beyond dark.” He leaned forward, lowering his voice. “There were two openings. One in front for the vagina, and one in back for the asshole. With serrated metal teeth. If you took a shit with one of those things on, your shit would be extruded like cake frosting.”
“Thanks for the image,” Larry said.
“Imagine having one of those things on for months and months. For years! How would you keep it clean?”
“You’d be the queen,” Larry said. “You’d have someone to clean it for you.”
“A lady-in-waiting.”
“Just one of the perks.”
They refilled their wineglasses. Larry was in a good mood. The speed with which he’d gotten over Claire was stunning. Maybe he hadn’t really liked Claire all that much. Maybe he disliked Claire as much as Mitchell did. The fact that Larry could get over Claire in a matter of weeks, whereas Mitchell remained heartbroken over Madeleine—even though he hadn’t gone out with Madeleine—meant one of two things: either Mitchell’s love for Madeleine was pure and true and earthshakingly significant; or he was addicted to feeling forlorn, he liked being heartbroken, and the “emotion” he felt for Madeleine—somewhat increased by the flowing chianti—was only a perverted form of self-love. Not love at all, in other words.
“Don’t you miss Claire?” Mitchell asked.
“I do.”
“You don’t seem like you do.”
Larry took this in, staring back into Mitchell’s eyes, but saying nothing.
“What was she like in bed?”
“Now, now, Mitchell,” Larry lightly scolded.
“Come on. What was she like?”
“She was wild, Mitchell. Unbelievably wild.”
“Tell me.”
Larry took a sip of wine, considering. “She was dutiful. She was the kind of girl who says, ‘O.K. Lie on your back.’”
“And then she’d blow you?”
“Um, yeah.”
“‘Lie on your back.’ Like at the doctor’s.”
Larry nodded.
“That sounds pretty decent.”
“It wasn’t that great.”
This was more than Mitchell could bear. “What do you mean!” he cried. “What are you complaining about?”
“I wasn’t that into it.”
Mitchell leaned away from the table, as if to distance himself from such heresy. He drained off his glass of wine and ordered another.
“That’s over our budget,” Larry cautioned.
“I don’t care.”
Larry ordered more wine too.
They drank wine until the proprietor of the restaurant told them he was closing. Staggering back to their hotel, they fell into the big double bed. At one point, in his sleep, Larry rolled on top of Mitchell, or Mitchell dreamed this. He had an erection. He thought he might throw up. Somebody in his dream was sucking his cock, or Larry was, and then he woke up to hear Larry say, “Ugh, you stink,” without pushing him away, however. And then Mitchell passed out again, and in the morning they both acted as if nothing had happened. Maybe nothing had.
By late November, they reached Greece. From Brindisi they had taken a ferry smelling of diesel fuel to Piraeus, and found a room in a hotel not far from Syntagma Square. Gazing from the balcony of this hotel, Mitchell had a revelation. Greece wasn’t part of Europe. It was the Middle East. Flat-roofed gray high-rises like the one he was in extended all the way to the hazy horizon. Steel girders protruded from the roofs and exteriors, making the buildings look barbed, bristling against the acrid atmosphere. He might have been in Beirut. The thick smog was mixed with tear gas on a daily basis as police battled protesters down in the streets. Protest marches occurred constantly, against the government, against CIA interference, against capitalism, against NATO, and in support of the return of the Elgin marbles. Greece, the birthplace of democracy, stymied by free speech. In coffeehouses everyone had an informed opinion, and no one could get anything done.
A few old widows, clad head to toe in black, reminded Mitchell