Rameau's Niece

"Margaret," he said, "you have no clothes on."

That was true, Margaret thought, sobbing, her face buried in Richard's neck. Buck naked. Well, at least he hadn't noticed her puffy eyes.

"Richard!" called a voice. A familiar voice. Whose voice? Not Richard's voice. Not hers, although it was almost her voice. Oh, yes, it was Edward's voice again. "You left the door open ... Margaret!" said Edward's voice.

Margaret jumped back from Richard. The room was quiet. The clocks, even, were quiet. Margaret wondered if she ought to blush. If she did blush, would the blush spread all over her body?

"Margaret," Edward said in a horrifyingly hushed, controlled voice. "I never expected this."

Which this? she wondered lazily. She felt as if she were under water.

Edward gestured toward Richard.

Oh, that this, she thought.

"I have my clothes on," Richard said.

"I'm sorry," she said. She was still crying. "I'm sorry, Edward, sorry about everything."

"Sorry? You're both insane," Richard said. "There's nothing to be sorry about!"

Nothing, she thought. She put her face in her hands. Nothing at all.

The two men stared at her as she stood before them, naked and weeping. Like a Renaissance Eve, she thought. Poor old Eve.

Margaret reached for a crumpled silk ball on the floor, her skirt. Cover thyself, she thought. She pulled it on and looked down at her still naked breasts.

"Oh, well, that's better," Richard said, as he too looked at Margaret's breasts, his face registering the kind of hostile despair Margaret had noticed on the faces of people stepping over homeless derelicts and their bare, filthy feet.

"I've been looking all over for you," Edward said. "I've called everyone I could think of. I called here. I called everywhere. I've been running around the city looking for you."

"You have?" Margaret said. He had? He had been looking for her? Why? Surely not to tell her what she already knew, that he was having an affair with Lily. She trembled with humiliation, then remembered Dr. Lipi, and her humiliation increased. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

"Now I've found you, haven't I?" said Edward, his voice soft, almost sad.

He had been looking for her. All over. You look for someone when you want to find them. You want to find them when you want them. You want them when you love them. Did that mean he still loved her? He loved her after all? Edward loved her! And she loved him! She didn't care what had happened. To either of them. She cared only that he loved her, he had searched for her, he wanted her, and he had found her.

"Yes, Edward," she whispered. "You found me."

"Finders keepers," muttered Richard, and he retreated to his own room, closing the door loudly behind him.

Thank God you found me. She looked up at him. He was so beautiful to look at, his voice was so beautiful to listen to. He knew everything. He taught everything. He took everything. He shared everything. And now he was back. Back to take her back. He had searched for her and he had found her.

"Edward," she said. But as she moved toward him, Edward shook his head, turned, and walked out of the room.

"Edward?" she said, following him with a startled, scurrying gait. "Where are you going? You found me. I found you. What are you doing?"

At the front door, she caught up with him. She stood half-naked in her silk skirt, holding his arm, pulling on it.

Edward turned around, slowly, fixed his eyes on her like locks, padlocks, click, no keys, caught forever. "Margaret," he said, then he turned away, but the locks held tight. "Margaret," he said as he walked out the door, as he left her, left her locked in his gaze forever, as her husband walked out the door and left her, "I have eyes. I have eyes, and I can see."

I went up the stairs to gather my personal belongings and to supervise the removal of my trunk, and then sadly I made my way to the carriage. I sat down with a heavy sigh. I had stepped down from that carriage only hours before, and with what a light heart, what hopes for nocturnal discussion and debate! Now I was back in the conveyance, on my way to Paris, stripped of every aspiration; every inclination to pursue knowledge and truth had been dampened in my cold breast. The truth? The awful truth. Truth was more than a human being ought ever have to bear.

There was in that carriage, on the seat beside me, a large blanket provided by some overzealous servant. It was a warm day, but in my state of unhappiness I should not have cared if it had been a cold one. I had no interest in comfort. Comfort, the idea of comfort, seemed to me at that moment to be an affront, and in my unsettled state of mind that blanket appeared to ridicule me. Useless and unwanted, it was a blanket that reminded me of myself. I pushed it impatiently away.





THE BLANKET: Sir!

MYSELF: Who is under there? What sort of mischief is this?

Cathleen Schine's books