Rameau's Niece

"Yes. Horrible. But some people like them. More bass. They like to adjust the concert hall!" He began to laugh, real, bursting laughter, repeating, "To adjust the hall!"

Margaret looked away, embarrassed by his uninhibited laughter. But, she thought, it could have been worse. At least he had not wanted to make love in the orchestra section of the Metropolitan Opera House using tiny leather and elastic triangular sex aids.

Margaret turned to the synopsis. "Well, what do you know?" she said several times as she read. "What do you know?"

The awful woman in black was Katya's mother-in-law. Katya's husband was pussy-whipped by his mother, who also constantly criticized Katya. The other young woman is the housemaid. Katya falls in love with a man who is hollered at by an uncle who controls his inheritance. When Katya's husband goes away on a business trip, Katya goes into the woods with her lover. When the husband comes home, Katya insists on confessing to him even though he doesn't want to know. He wants to forgive her; the mother-in-law doesn't want him to forgive her; the lover is sent away by his uncle. Katya jumps into the Vltava and drowns.

Margaret, listening to the strung-out, taut romanticism of the music, the hysterical, neurotic horn bleats as Katya plunges into the waters of oblivion, nodded her head and thought, Yes, this is just like my life. Should I go back to Prague and jump in the Vltava?

The lights came on and she wiped a tear from her eye.

"No dead baby," she said to Martin.

"No, the dead baby is in Jen?fa"

"Ah."

"This is how I knew, you see? On the plane."

"Ah."





The plane. Prague. That was where it had all started. If only Edward had come with her. Then this would not have been necessary. She would not be here now, in a taxi, on her way to her ruin in a rich man's brownstone.

Martin was a large man, and his leg, in beautiful dark green trousers, was touching hers. Her skirt had ridden up. She did not pull it down. She shifted a little to get comfortable. Martin looked down at her leg. He looked at her leg, then at her, then out the window. She thought she heard him sigh.

Edward does not exist, she thought.

But if he does not exist, how come when I ask the question, What is it that does not exist?, the answer is Edward. It's Edward. Doesn't this confer some sort of existence on him? In other words, doth the lady protest too much? Or is it just that logic makes no sense?

"You are very quiet," Martin said.

Margaret pointed to her throat. "Laryngite," she whispered.

"You are thinking of the trip on the plane," he said. He blushed.





Margaret lay on the low couch, a soft, deep couch. How had she gotten there? In the taxi. Up the stairs. A living room with Alex Katz cutouts and wooden Venetian blinds. Up the stairs again. A music room with a piano, a plant, a worn Victorian couch, and two speakers, each one the size of a tollbooth. Wine on a low table. Another couch. (You must sit on this couch, said Martin. In the middle. The sweet spot! To get the full effect. Oh, yes, she thought. The sweet spot indeed. The full effect!) Martin, plugging and unplugging, soldering, twisting a screwdriver, yanking a wrench, draping cables, thick cables, cables as thick as, well, as thick as dicks. Margaret burst out laughing.

"It's almost ready," Martin said, looking at her, red in the face. He had already said "It's almost ready" several times. She had drunk the wine. Nothing to eat. Just this wine. Just like France. A man muttering in French and wine. In France with Edward, there had been only Edward. Now there was no Edward. Edward did not exist, except logically, of course. Good-bye, Edward. Bonjour, Martin.

Margaret lay on her side and gazed at the antique Chinese carpet. What Eastern despot or Western imperialist trod this rug before it ended up here? Martin's crepe-soled shoes went by, the cuffs of his beautifully draped pants swinging jauntily. Margaret lolled on the soft pillows of the sweet-spot couch. Quit caressing your tube amplifiers, Martin. Quit pacing. Thank God, Edward doesn't pace. Pacing makes me dizzy. I'm dizzy, Martin. Dizzy with drink. Dizzy with desire.

"Records," Martin said. "You must play records. CDs, they are shrill, an evil invention, a conspiracy."

She reached lazily down to one foot, took off a shoe, and threw it at him.

"I'm drunk," she said.

"Well, now at last I'm finished," he said, putting away his tools. "Now, we try my equipment, yes?"

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