Lorrie Moore - Birds of America

“As soon as you get settled in your studio, you’ll feel better,” said Martin, beginning to fade. He groped under the covers to find her hand and clasp it.

“I want a divorce,” whispered Adrienne.

“I’m not giving you one,” he said, bringing her hand up to his chest and placing it there, like a medallion, like a necklace of sleep, and then he began softly to snore, the quietest of radiators.

They were given bagged lunches and told to work well. Martin’s studio was a modern glass cube in the middle of one of the gardens. Adrienne’s was a musty stone hut twenty minutes farther up the hill and out onto the wooded headland, along a dirt path sunned on by small darting lizards. She unlocked the door with the key she had been given, went in, and immediately sat down and ate the entire bagged lunch — quickly, compulsively, though it was only 9:30 in the morning. Two apples, some cheese, and a jam sandwich. “A jelly bread,” she said aloud, holding up the sandwich, scrutinizing it under the light.

She set her sketch pad on the worktable and began a morning full of killing spiders and drawing their squashed and tragic bodies. The spiders were star-shaped, hairy, and scuttling like crabs. They were fallen stars. Bad stars. They were earth’s animal try at heaven. Often she had to step on them twice — they were large and ran fast. Stepping on them once usually just made them run faster.

It was the careless universe’s work she was performing, death itchy and about like a cop. Her personal fund of mercy for the living was going to get used up in dinner conversation at the villa. She had no compassion to spare, only a pencil and a shoe.

“Art trouvé ?” said Martin, toweling himself dry from his shower as they dressed for the evening cocktail hour.

“Spider trouvé ,” she said. “A delicate, aboriginal dish.” Martin let out a howling laugh that alarmed her. She looked at him, then looked down at her shoes. He needed her. Tomorrow, she would have to go down into town and find a pair of sexy Italian sandals that showed the cleavage of her toes. She would have to take him dancing. They would have to hold each other and lead each other back to love or they’d go nuts here. They’d grow mocking and arch and violent. One of them would stick a foot out, and the other would trip. That sort of thing.

At dinner, she sat next to a medievalist who had just finished his sixth book on the Canterbury Tales .

“Sixth,” repeated Adrienne.

“There’s a lot there,” he said defensively.

“I’m sure,” she said.

“I read deep,” he added. “I read hard.”

“How nice for you.”

He looked at her narrowly. “Of course, you probably think I should write a book about Cat Stevens.” She nodded neutrally. “I see,” he said.

For dessert, Carlo was bringing in a white chocolate torte, and she decided to spend most of the coffee and dessert time talking about it. Desserts like these are born, not made, she would say. She was already practicing, rehearsing for courses. “I mean,” she said to the Swedish physicist on her left, “until today, my feeling about white chocolate was why? What was the point? You might as well have been eating goddamn wax .” She had her elbow on the table, her hand up near her face, and she looked anxiously past the physicist to smile at Martin at the other end of the long table. She waved her fingers in the air like bug legs.

“Yes, of course,” said the physicist, frowning. “You must be … well, are you one of the spouses ?”

· · ·

She began in the mornings to gather with some of the other spouses — they were going to have little tank tops printed up — in the music room for exercise. This way, she could avoid hearing words like Heideggerian and ideological at breakfast; it always felt too early in the morning for those words. The women pushed back the damask sofas and cleared a space on the rug where all of them could do little hip and thigh exercises, led by the wife of the Swedish physicist. Up, down, up down.

“I guess this relaxes you,” said the white-haired woman next to her.

“Bourbon relaxes you,” said Adrienne. “This carves you.”

“Bourbon carves you,” said a redhead from Brazil.

“You have to go visit this person down in the village,” whispered the white-haired woman. She wore a Spalding sporting-goods T-shirt.

“What person?”

“Yes, what person?” asked the blonde.

The white-haired woman stopped and handed both of them a card from the pocket of her shorts. “She’s an American masseuse. A couple of us have started going. She takes lire or dollars, doesn’t matter. You have to phone a couple days ahead.”

Adrienne stuck the card in her waistband. “Thanks,” she said, and resumed moving her leg up and down like a tollgate.

For dinner, there was tacchino alla scala . “I wonder how you make this?” Adrienne said aloud.

“My dear,” said the French historian on her left. “You must never ask. Only wonder.” He then went on to disparage sub-altered intellectualism, dormant tropes, genealogical contingencies.

“Yes,” said Adrienne, “dishes like these do have about them a kind of omnihistorical reality. At least it seems like that to me.” She turned quickly.

To her right sat a cultural anthropologist who had just come back from China, where she had studied the infanticide.

“Yes,” said Adrienne. “The infanticide.”

“They are on the edge of something horrific there. It is the whole future, our future as well, and something terrible is going to happen to them. One feels it.”

“How awful,” said Adrienne. She could not do the mechanical work of eating, of knife and fork, up and down. She let her knife and fork rest against each other on the plate.

“A woman has to apply for a license to have a baby. Everything is bribes and rations. We went for hikes up into the mountains, and we didn’t see a single bird, a single animal. Everything, over the years, has been eaten.”

Adrienne felt a light weight on the inside of her arm vanish and return, vanish and return, like the history of something, like the story of all things. “Where are you from ordinarily?” asked Adrienne. She couldn’t place the accent.

“Munich,” said the woman. “Land of Oktoberfest.” She dug into her food in an exasperated way, then turned back toward Adrienne to smile a little formally. “I grew up watching all these grown people in green felt throw up in the street.”

Adrienne smiled back. This now was how she would learn about the world, in sentences at meals; other people’s distillations amid her own vague pain, dumb with itself. This, for her, would be knowledge — a shifting to hear, an emptying of her arms, other people’s experiences walking through the bare rooms of her brain, looking for a place to sit.

“Me?” she too often said, “I’m just a dropout from Sue Bennet College.” And people would nod politely and ask, “Where’s that?”

· · ·

The next morning in her room, she sat by the phone and stared. Martin had gone to his studio; his book was going fantastically well, he said, which gave Adrienne a sick, abandoned feeling — of being unhappy and unsupportive — which made her think she was not even one of the spouses. Who was she? The opposite of a mother. The opposite of a spouse.

She was Spider Woman.

She picked up the phone, got an outside line, dialed the number of the masseuse on the card.

“Pronto!” said the voice on the other end.

“Yes, hello, per favore, parla inglese ?”

“Oh, yes,” said the voice. “I’m from Minnesota.”

“No kidding,” said Adrienne. She lay back and searched the ceiling for talk. “I once subscribed to a haunted-house newsletter published in Minnesota,” she said.