The Marriage Plot - Jeffrey Eugenides [73]
“Are you actually reading that?”
Mitchell looked up to find Claire staring at him from the bed.
“Hemingway?” she said dubiously.
“I thought it would be good for Paris.”
She rolled her eyes and went back to her book. And Mitchell went back to his. Or tried. Except that now all he could do was stare at the page.
He was perfectly aware that certain once-canonical writers (always male, always white) had fallen into disrepute. Hemingway was a misogynist, a homophobe, a repressed homosexual, a murderer of wild animals. Mitchell thought this was an instance of tarring with too wide a brush. If he was to argue this with Claire, however, he ran the risk of being labeled a misogynist himself. More worryingly, Mitchell had to ask himself if he wasn’t being just as knee-jerk in resisting the charge of misogyny as college feminists were in leveling it, and if his resistance didn’t mean that he was, somewhere deep down, prone to misogyny himself. Why, after all, had he bought A Moveable Feast in the first place? Why, knowing what he did about Claire, had he decided to whip it out of his backpack at this particular moment? Why, in fact, had the phrase whip it out just occurred to him?
Rereading Hemingway’s sentences, Mitchell recognized that they were, indeed, implicitly addressed to the male reader.
He crossed and uncrossed his legs, trying to concentrate on his book. He felt embarrassed to be reading Hemingway and angry about being made to feel embarrassed. It wasn’t as if Hemingway was even his favorite writer! He’d hardly read any Hemingway!
Fortunately, a little while later, Larry announced that dinner was served.
At the small table meant to accomodate a Parisian bachelor, Claire and Mitchell sat while Larry served them. He carved the chicken, sequestering the white meat, dark meat, and drumsticks on a platter, and spooned out the dripping vegetables.
“Yum,” Claire said.
The chicken was scrawny by American standards, and cosmetically inferior. One leg seemed to have acne.
Mitchell took a bite.
“Huh?” Larry prompted. “Did I tell you or did I tell you?”
“You told us,” Mitchell said.
When they were finished eating, Mitchell insisted on doing the dishes. He stacked them next to the sink while Larry and Claire carried what was left of the wine over to the bed. Claire had taken off her sandals and was now barefoot. She stretched her legs across Larry’s lap, sipping from her glass.
Mitchell rinsed the dishes under the tap. The European dish soap was either eco-friendly or tariff-protected. Either way it didn’t make enough suds. Mitchell got the dishes reasonably clean and quit. He’d been awake, at that point, for thirty-three hours.
He came back into the main room. On the bed, Larry and Claire were a Keith Haring: two loving human figures that fit perfectly together. Mitchell observed them for a long moment. Then, with sudden resolve, he crossed the room and hoisted his backpack onto his shoulders.
“Where’s the best place to find a hotel around here?” he asked.
There was a pause before Claire said, “You can stay here.”
“That’s O.K. I’ll find a hotel.”
He hooked his waist strap.
Without arguing, Claire jumped right in to giving directions. “If you take a right outside my building, and then a left at the next street, you’ll come to Avenue Rapp. There’s a lot of hotels on that.”
“Mitchell, stay,” Larry urged. “It’s cool with us if you stay.”
In what he hoped was an unaggrieved tone, Mitchell said, “I’ll just get a room someplace. See you guys tomorrow.”
He didn’t realize the hall was dark until he’d shut the door behind him. He couldn’t see a thing. He was about to knock on Claire’s door again when he noticed an illuminated button on the wall. When he pressed it, the corridor lights came on.
He was descending past the third floor when the lights timed out again. This time, he couldn’t find a button, and so had to grope his way down two more flights to the lobby.
When he reached the street, Mitchell saw that it had begun to rain.
He’d foreseen a moment like this, where he would be exiled from the