Douglas Kennedy - Woman in the Fifth

‘You have been drinking,’ she said.

‘My, my, you are tres perspicace .’

‘No, I just know a drunken man when I see one.’

‘You want a written confession?’

‘It is not a crime, you know. In fact, I approve of a man who drinks. Especially one who drinks to soften the past.’

‘Booze doesn’t soften the past. It just blots it out … until the next morning. Nothing softens over time. Nothing .’

‘That’s a very Manichean way of looking at the world.’

‘No — it’s a very Manichean way of looking at oneself.’

‘You don’t like yourself very much, do you?’

‘Who the hell are you?’

She smiled an amused smile — her eyes brimming with mischief. And I suddenly wanted to sleep with her.

‘Who am I? I am a woman standing on a balcony in the Sixth arrondissement , looking out at the Pantheon, while talking to an American who has clearly lost his way in life.’

‘May I kiss the hem of your shmatte , Dr Freud?’

She lit up a fresh cigarette, then said, ‘ Shmatte . Yiddish.

Are you Jewish?’

‘My mother was.’

‘Then that makes you Jewish. The mother carries the religion and passes it on—’

‘Like the clap.’

‘And the other part of you?’ she asked.

‘Dreary Midwestern Congregationalist.’

‘So you considered your father a dull man?’

‘You ask a lot of questions.’

‘You seem willing to answer them.’

‘I don’t talk much about myself.’

‘All Americans talk about themselves. It’s how they give themselves an identity.’

‘What an original thought.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘So let me guess: you’re a professor of semiotics at the Sorbonne who has written a doctoral thesis on Symbolic Nuance in American Cultural Life …’

‘No,’ she said, ‘but I’m certain your doctoral thesis wasn’t far off that title.’

‘How did you know I was a professor?’

‘Just a hunch. And your field is … ?’

‘ Was film studies. I no longer teach.’

‘You lost your job?’

‘Have we met before? Or do you have a file on me?’

Another smile.

‘No to both questions. I’m just “bullshitting around”, as they say in your country.’

‘And what’s the word for “bullshit” in your country?’

‘Two words: buta beszed .’

‘You’re Eastern European?’

‘Bravo. Hungarian.’

‘But your French … it is perfect.’

‘If you have not been born French, your French is never perfect. But after fifty years in Paris, it is serviceable.’

‘Fifty years? You must have been a baby when you arrived here.’

‘Flattery is always pleasant … and utterly transparent. I was seven years old when I arrived here in 1957 … and now I have given away a vital piece of information: my age.’

‘You look wonderful on it.’

‘Now we move from flippant flattery to absurd flattery.’

‘Do you have a problem with that?’ I asked.

She let two of her fingers touch the top of my hand.

‘Not at all,’ she said.

‘Do you have a name?’

‘I do.’

‘And it is … ?’

‘Margit,’ she said, pronouncing it Mar-geet .

‘A last name?’

‘Kadar.’

‘Margit Kadar,’ I said, trying it out. ‘Wasn’t there some Hungarian bigwig named Kadar?’

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘the Communist stooge whom the Soviets put in place to control us. We are not related.’

‘So Kadar is a pretty common name in Hungary?’

‘Not particularly. Do you have a name?’

‘You’re still trying to change the subject.’

‘We’ll get back to me. But not until I know your name.’

I told her, then added, ‘And the H in Harry is not dropped, as every French person does it here.’

‘So you don’t like being called “’ arry “. But you do speak very impressive French.’

‘Impressive because I’m American … and everyone assumes that all Americans are ignorant and unworldly?’

‘“All cliches are fundamentally true.”’

‘George Orwell?’

‘Bravo. He was a very popular writer in Hungary, Mr Orwell.’

‘You mean, during the Communist years?’

‘Yes, that’s what I mean.’

‘But if you left in ‘57, you must have escaped all that Stalinist stuff.’

‘Not exactly,’ she said, drawing deeply on her cigarette.

‘By which you mean … ?’

‘Not exactly.’

Her tone was quiet, but sharp. A hint that she didn’t want to continue this line of questioning. So I dropped it and said, ‘The only Hungarian joke I know comes from Billy Wilder. He said, “A Hungarian is the only person in the world who can enter a revolving door behind you and come out first.”’

‘So you really are a professor of film studies.’

‘ Was .’

‘And let me guess — you are trying to be a novelist …

like half the people at this absurd salon.’

‘Yes, I’m a would-be writer.’

‘Why call yourself that?’

‘Because I haven’t published anything yet.’

‘Do you write most days of the week?’

‘Every day.’

‘Then you are a writer. Because you write. You actually do it. Which separates the true artist from the poseur.’

I put my hand on top of hers — briefly, but tellingly.

‘Thank you for that.’

She shrugged.

‘Now I’m certain you’re no would-be artist,’ I said, changing the subject.

‘True. I’m not a would-be artist because I am not an artist. I am a translator.’

‘French into Hungarian?’

‘Yes, and Hungarian into French.’

‘Does it keep you busy?’

‘I get by. Back in the seventies and eighties, there was plenty of work … especially as the French couldn’t get enough of modern Hungarian authors … and yes, that probably sounds comic … but one of the few things I have always respected about this society is their cultural curiosity.’

‘“One of the few things” … ?’

‘That’s what I said.’

‘So you don’t like it here.’

‘Now I didn’t say that. I just said—’

‘I know what you said. But that hints at a deep antipathy toward this place.’

‘Not antipathy. Ambivalence. And what is wrong with feeling ambivalent toward a country, a spouse, your work, even a good friend?’

‘Are you married?’

‘Now, Harry — think carefully. If I was married, would I be wasting my time at this salon?’

‘Well, if you were unhappily married …’

‘I’d simply have a lover.’

‘Do you have a lover?’

‘I might … if he plays his cards right.’

I felt myself tighten. I met her smile and put my hand back on top of hers. She immediately pulled hers away.

‘What makes you think I was talking about you?’

‘Pure arrogance.’

‘Nice reply,’ she said, and now put her hand on top of mine.

‘So you definitely don’t have a husband?’

‘Why do you need to know that?’

‘Idle curiosity.’

‘I had a husband.’

‘What happened?’

‘That’s a somewhat involved story.’

‘Children?’

‘I had a daughter.’

‘I see.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You don’t see. No one can ever see that .’

Silence.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like to …’

She put a finger to my lips. I kissed the finger. Several times. But when I started moving down her hand, she gently pushed me away.

‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘Not yet.’

‘OK,’ I whispered back.