"So," said the composer. "Prague. Though nothing is going on in Eastern Europe, isn't that so?"
Margaret stared at him, startled. Had she blacked out briefly, missed some crucial link in this conversation? She searched his face for some clue, but saw only a bony nose, long chin, and a rather long, upper lip, like a goat's.
"Musically," he added.
"I'm going to hear the Czech Philharmonic," she said.
"Czech Philharmonic. Yes, well, limited repertoire," he said over his shoulder as he headed toward some new arrivals.
Yes, well, when's the last time you toppled a government, you hideous silly chèvre? she thought.
Margaret noticed she was drinking a glass of wine. Still. Or again. Which was it? How many glasses had there been? Margaret, Margaret, calm yourself. And always remember, the aim of art is not to topple governments, Margaret, any more than it is to support them, so just go sit down over there, right on that alarmingly low leather armchair, you can make it, and drink your nice, tasty wine, close your weary eyes, lean your head a little to this side, where the cushion bulges comfortably. Just like that.
She had heard one of the composer's own works performed once, an opera. Drums thumped luridly. Corpses were strewn about the stage, which had been splattered with red paint. What was it about? Greed and capitalist corruption and redemption through revolution, certainly. But what was the plot? It was hard to recall, hard to recall even what period it was set in, partly because she was now, she realized, thoroughly drunk, but primarily because there had been so many soldiers in so many different uniforms—World War I Tommies in gas masks, Nazi storm troopers in boots, Napoleonic cuirassiers, Roman legionnaires with ten-foot spears.
She hadn't thought of the opera, whatever it was called, in many years, and was surprised she remembered as much of it as she did. It was on their first trip together that Edward and Margaret had gone to see this rousing, panhistorical bloodbath, which included several gang-rape scenes during which a chorus chanted, "U.S.A.! U.S.A.!" That was the trip on which we decided to get married, Margaret thought, and she opened her eyes and gazed at the composer, twitching toward the door now, with a little more warmth.
She and Edward had also gone to Versailles on that trip, for neither of them, in all their visits to France, had ever been there. And there they had marveled at a vulgarity so self-confident, so immense, and so ultimately frail. How could people with mirrors that big not realize how puny they themselves were?
Most of France survived in her memory as vivid fragments, moments immediately preceding or following meals. The meals themselves she remembered in detail. The steak with green peppercorns at a shabby inn famous for its steak with green peppercorns. The inn was of some historic importance, but Margaret could recall only the steak and on the other side of the steak, Edward watching her, and then, after the steak, the twisted rickety staircase to their closet-sized room and single single bed. A plate of shrimp at an outdoor seaside café, past which a bull ran frantically, chasing a few brave souls and followed by what seemed to be the entire population of the town. What town? That fact was lost forever in the happy scent of garlic and olive oil, the pink of shrimp, the pale dust cloud heralding the arrival of the bull, the thrilling clarity of the very blue sky.
Only Versailles stood its ground, bigger than any gigot, How conventional, Margaret thought. Why not marvel over the Eiffel Tower as well? But then, I am marveling over the Eiffel Tower, aren't I? There it is, that symbol not of Paris but of all those who come to Paris, not of romance but of one's desire for romance, one's need. Some French writer said he ate lunch at the Eiffel Tower every day because it was the only place in all of Paris from which he would not have to look at the Eiffel Tower. Gide? Maupassant? Roland Barthes? Crébillon fils?
"I love the Eiffel Tower," she murmured to Juliette, who had perched on the arm of Margaret's chair. "It's on the wallpaper in my aunt Eunice's bathroom."
Margaret smiled uncomprehendingly at the rest of the French people around her. Smoke filled the room. Juliette had begun deconstructing the Eiffel Tower with all the enthusiasm someone or other had put into constructing it.
"Who built the Eiffel Tower?" Margaret interrupted Juliette.
Juliette stared. "Eiffel," she said.
"Ah."
"You have read of course Barthes, the little essay? You know? Where he says that the tower has both sexes of sight, that is to say that the tower can both see and be seen."
"You mean it sticks up and you can also go inside it?" Margaret asked. "Yes, I read it."
The composer ushered in a new arrival, a young man, and Margaret noticed heads turn. There was a sudden buzz of whispered excitement.
"That's Henri de Goldbaumois," Juliette whispered. "He is the rising star of France."
"Movie star?"
Juliette looked at her pityingly.
"Rock star," said Margaret.