Mary Gaitskill - Veronica

I remembered a slim white arm and bristling hide and pieces of pie on cream-colored dishes. Unbearable sweetness and sadness funneled into my mouth through a straw; broken feelings tried to be whole. A door of stainless steel swung open on a bright kitchen. “I could work in a restaurant,” I had said. And I could. Even though I had no experience, Ted said I could start the following week.

I left my temp job before I started in the restaurant, and a week of days lay before me in sweet blank chunks. I went to movies by myself. I went to museums by myself. I went for walks. On one walk, I ran into George and stopped to talk with him. When I mentioned Veronica, he said, “We don’t see her anymore, not Max and I. She started up with it again, and suicide is simply not something I want to watch, thank you very much.”

It was late autumn and bright, and there was a delighted feeling in the air. A girl with magenta hair walked by in a tiny black skirt and leopard-print boots, swinging her slim hips with delight. George and I stopped to watch her. She smiled.

“Is Duncan really that bad?” I asked. A bilious look came into George’s pale eyes.

“Yes, he is that bad. He’s the kind of man who pretends to desire a woman because her desire tweaks his vanity — even when he knows he could … and she knows—” The bile receded. “Well, it’s not my business. It’s sad, but there’s nothing you can say to her. She goes right into ‘hon’ mode.”

I said, “She hasn’t got another mode.” We said good-bye.

Still, I called Veronica to tell her about my new job. She congratulated me. She said we must keep in touch. I told her about running into George.

“Oh, don’t believe that old bitch,” she said. “I only saw Duncan a few times for coffee. George is just using that as an excuse. He’s a misogynist, you know.”

“George?”

“I was shocked, too. But we had a fight and he said some things that were totally unforgivable.”

“But a misogynist?” What does that word mean to her? I wondered.

“Absolutely.”

She asked if I’d like to meet for coffee. I didn’t want to, but I said yes. I guess she didn’t want to, either; she canceled at the last minute.

The following months were an oscillating loop of dreams — brilliant and blurred, like a carnival ride at night, lighting up and going dark as its cars toss and churn. From a distance, it is beautiful, even peaceful. From inside, it rattles and roars and roughly yanks you by the neck. I ran from dining room to kitchen with my hands full of plates. The dishwasher creaked and loosed gusts of hot steam, the kitchen boys yakked in Spanish, and the cook spun out plate after plate of flawless food. I ran back through great vases of gaudy flowers, wild ginger and birds-of-paradise with gaping orange beaks. Gorgeous people leaned over succulent plates, gobbling. Earrings flashed and jiggled on jawbones; an eloquent hand drew a lovely emotion out of air; hot eyes fired rounds of arrows at a naked breastbone. Delicacy, roughness, mincing intelligence, and raw, rampant stupidity ran together in the pitched jabber. Back in the kitchen, a radio played sequined songs and the Mexican boys scraped everything off the plates, mashed it up, and washed it down the garbage disposal while the boy at the dishwasher did a butt-bumping dance with the boy mopping the floor. I gossiped with the other wait and bus persons about actresses in the dining room and who was fucking whom as we snatched extra plates of calamari, tuna tartare, bilberries, and lemon cream. At closing, we all piled into a sagging taxi with its seat propped up by oily black springs and got out at a club, where I leaned into a wall of canned music and tongue-kissed a waiter as handsome as Jamie until I passed out, only to wake up alone, slumped on a cold banquette. After three days, I pulled myself out of this slop, put on fresh makeup, and went to a new agency, where I met a woman with powerful shoulders and flat buttocks dressed in a tight leopard print. She looked at my pictures, frowned, looked at me, back to the pictures, looked up, and burst out, “But you’re Alison Owen! What are you doing in these awful pictures?”

Her name was Morgan Crosse. She had unmoored eyes and a voice full of force. I told her what had happened in Paris. It made it more real to describe it to someone who knew what it meant, and I began to cry. She said not to worry. She said I could destroy Alain. She said she’d get me a voodoo doll, which I would stick with pins every day for thirty days, then put in the freezer, and I’d be fine. Soon, I was standing in Central Park, bitterly cold in fluttering underwear. A stolid girl smiled uncertainly as she held the light-blinded eye of the reflector, and the camera saturated me with brilliance. Then I was sitting in an overheated trailer, talking with Pia about David Bowie and Ezra Pound while Ava nibbled cold cream from a jar and mechanical windup stylists tortured our hair. At a magazine party, I sat at a table with the most famous model of the year, a seventeen-year-old whose laughing face was a fleshy description of pleasure, satiety, and engagement that engaged at one decibel again and again. Photographers pitilessly filled her with their radiant needles until she was riddled with invisible holes and joyfully pouring radiance out each one. As an afterthought, a photographer turned and photographed me. My picture would appear later in a magazine society page. In the photo, I was sitting next to the young writer who had briefly occupied the chair next to me when it was vacated by a columnist. He sat down to ask me if I’d ever seen Modigliani’s paintings. “Because you’re like a beautiful Modigliani painting,” he said. “You should go see the exhibit at the Metropolitan.” I waited for him to ask me to go with him, but he didn’t. He just looked at me a long moment. He had intense eyebrows and hazel eyes with bright changeable streaks glowing emberlike through the solid color. His name was Patrick. He gave the impression of a fast current that you might ride on, laughing. We talked about nothing and then he got up and left. I waited a very pleasant moment before getting up, too. Six months later, his friends would ignore me and sting me with weapons made of the finest jealousy and gossamer contempt. A woman writing a book on the history of troll dolls would look at me and talk loudly about the trivial nature of beauty and fashion. A short actress would turn her back on me while I was speaking and put her arms around Patrick. I would break a wineglass in a hostess’s bathroom and walk on it until the splinters were unseeable. I would change my mind and guiltily mop the glass with a wet towel. “Alison?” Patrick would pound on the door. But that night, he proudly introduced me. That night, I said, “I’m a model,” and it came out shy and shining at the same time. People smiled and parted, and allowed me to enter the social grid.

I slip, fall, and muddy my knee. The sky beats on my umbrella; the wind tries to take it from me. “Come on, rat face,” said a photographer, “give me a little hope.” My dream loop flies. I walk and pant like an angry wolf. Faces and scenes rapidly bloom, one out of the other, making a living mosaic that fed me and starved me, freed and captured me at once. And deep within the bright swift-changing pattern is the darkness and emptiness of my apartment, where my phone rings and rang. It was, is, Veronica. “Duncan is dying,” she said. “He has it. He has AIDS.”

We met in a neighborhood bar, a dark rectangle filled with jukebox songs.

“You might not have it,” I said. “Some people still think women can’t—”

“And you believe that ?”