Heidi Julavits - The Folded Clock - A Diary

Today my friends and I gossiped hard. We gossiped athletically. It was as if we’d met for a run, but we hadn’t. We’d met in heavy coats and mittens to sit on a bench and talk. My friends and I, we are pixilated conversationalists. There are no lines of thought. Together we amass data points, and only later, while in bed and thinking back over the words I’d uttered and absorbed, does the day’s big picture come into focus, if even then. In truth I no longer crave the day’s big picture. More and more I crave the day’s quick tagline. A useful takeaway like, Buy cheap ’70s East German ceramics on eBay or Never assume you are the love of anyone’s life .

My friends and I warmed up on real estate. Then we moved indoors and got out the knives and made the soup. We started talking about people. We talked about the man who left his wife for another woman, and had, out of pity, agreed to go on a last vacation with the wife (even though their marriage, in his opinion, because he was very much in love with the other woman, was over), and by accident while on this vacation he’d impregnated the wife while having “what is as close to platonic sex as you can possibly imagine,” and still he refuses to return home to the wife, now pregnant with his child, and their preexisting kids.

We talked about the man whose wife left him for another man (also married at the time), and how the wife was impregnated by the new man, or so everyone thought, until a paternity test revealed that what she thought was her boyfriend’s child was actually her husband’s.

We talked about the beautiful woman who was inexplicably marrying the man from Kansas City who wore cravats and resembled a turtle.

We talked about the woman who reconnected with her med school boyfriend over Facebook, and who, out of guilt, included her husband in their online flirtation, and who arranged for them to meet and have a three-way in Paris — though in fact this was just an excuse for her and the med school boyfriend to have husband-sanctioned sex with each other — and when the husband figured this out, she “opened the door” for his betrayal and defection, and her husband has since fallen in love with the woman’s work colleague, and is probably going to leave her.

The men showed up for dinner. The men were enthusiastic gossip participants but not so useful because they couldn’t remember specifics. They could only recall the haze of a scandal, and the haze is not what’s important. It’s the hard data that’s important; it’s the motivations and the causality. What makes what happen? What’s connected to what? It’s the equivalent of disassembling a car engine before putting it back together. Every plug and cable is important. So the men participated by saying stuff like, “What was it about that guy who had the secret second family?” and then the women would tell the story.

This man, he’d been dumped by a rich woman who later found out she was pregnant with his son but refused to get back together with him, which was fine because the man had met another woman whom he married and with whom he had two children, but he never told his wife about his biological son with this ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend — this was an important detail — was boundlessly wealthy and as such was never emotionally involved with anyone very deeply. On a whim, the rich ex-girlfriend decided she wanted this man back, and he returned to her, at which point his wife found out about his secret son, and she was so upset that she had him legally removed from the business they’d formed together, and so when the rich ex-girlfriend dumped the guy anew because she didn’t like his parenting style — the son was “feral” and told every adult who disciplined him, “My mother is going to fire you!” and the man tried to discipline his son and so was basically fired — he had no job, and no money, and no family, and now nobody knows where he is.

Another woman talked about her sister who left her husband for an “asshole” who was famous in the theatre and thus somewhat excused for being an asshole, and who she’d been with for three years when she found his diary detailing the many affairs he’d been having with other women during the same three years he’d been with her. Another man, we were told, kept his diary on his family’s home computer, where his wife read about the women he’d slept with in the darkroom she’d had built for him, because she was a successful surgeon. (At this point I tried to initiate the term “guy-ary,” defined as “a diary written by a husband detailing his extramarital affairs and kept in a place where a wife could easily find it.”)

A man said, “We’re so horrible, talking about these people!” But he said it insincerely, and besides, we weren’t saying anything mean. Thomas Mann, in Buddenbrooks , wrote of a marriage that everyone in town found “queer”: “To get behind it even a little, to look beneath the scanty outward facts to the bottom of this relation, this seemed a difficult, but certainly a stimulating task.” We were involved in a stimulating task! But we were also speaking warnings. We were trying to figure out the rules to a game we weren’t playing yet (or were naive enough to think we weren’t playing yet) because we were still in love.

We had no reason to feel confident. Sitting in our midst was a man whose wife had, a year earlier, slept with his best friend. His wife had believed he’d never leave her, no matter how she misbehaved, but her sleeping with his best friend was the last straw, and he’d left her, and now she was alone, and now he had a new girlfriend and was very happy.

But we already knew his story; nobody needed to tell it again tonight. His presence was reminder enough. The day’s tagline was a simple one. One of three things would happen to us: we would stay married, or we would leave, or we would be left. We are in our forties, and this is what our futures have winnowed down to, these three possibilities. The stimulating task in which we were engaged would help us figure out how to deal with this clarified future. How, as one man put it, to “best maneuver through the situation.”

I don’t maneuver. I distill. I distill from the many possible anxieties a primary one. I can imagine that point in time, if my husband and I stay together, and I believe we will, where our future will function like this: every night we’ll go to bed wondering who won’t be alive in the morning. When we kiss good night, it won’t be as we kiss now in our forties. I won’t be worrying whether or not I should be more passionate more regularly because if I’m not he might leave me for another woman. I’ll be kissing him wondering if we’ll never kiss again. I’ll be wondering if this is not good night but good-bye. I can imagine, too, that this anxiety is somewhat purifying, because it is so simple, so unavoidable. You believe you can prevent your husband or wife from leaving you for another person — this is one reason we gossip in our forties. But someday we will leave or be left, and it won’t be anyone’s fault or anyone’s choice. There is no available gossip to teach us how to avoid this fate.

Today I met for lunch a famous German artist, the one who violates the homes of others with her personal possessions. She arrived in New York a few days ago to install a show in a church. She was violating the house of God now.

I professed to her my adoration when, a month earlier, I’d interviewed her over Skype. She’d suggested, or maybe I’d suggested it: when she was next in town, we should have lunch.

The artist agreed to meet me at Café Sabarsky. I arrived first. I was worried we’d lose our chance at a table, so I lied to the hostess and told her the artist was in the restroom. When I called the artist to check on her whereabouts, she was still many blocks away. I confessed to the hostess, “I was mistaken about the artist’s location. Would you like your table back?”