The Misfortunes of Others (15 page)

“That’s not bad.”

A little while later Weezy said, “I hate to tell you this, but we’ve just gone through my entire wardrobe. I mean all of it.
Every single stitch of clothing I own. I’m panicking, Maya. My stress hormones are on red alert. What do I do now?”

“Don’t panic. I thought the green suit was really nice.”

Weezy took it out and looked at it, rubbing her chin thoughtfully. “I guess so. This is what I wore into the city to meet that gallery owner.”

“It shows off your hair beautifully.”

“Too businesslike?”

“No, no. Distinguished. ‘I’m an artist, but I’m not flaky.’ That kind of thing.”

“Oh. Good. What color shirt should I wear with it?”

“You have to decide what kind of statement you want to make, Weezy.”

“You mean like the flaky thing you just said?”

“You have to say to yourself, ‘How do I want to present myself? What do I want to say?’ Then match the shirt color to that.”

“I see. Like, crimson for ‘look at me’?”

“Right. Or red for ‘I get angry easily.’ ”

“How about green for ‘I hope they pay me a lot of money for doing this’?”

“No, no, green means ‘I hope everyone who knows me just dies of jealousy when they see me in this magazine.’ ”

Weezy sighed. “How about blue for ‘my lover just left me for this interviewer and I’m feeling kind of down about it’?”

Maya looked at her sympathetically. “It’s not an easy situation, is it?”

“No. Not at all. You know, it still hurts about her and Harold, and I’m still mad as hell about it, but I’ll be damned if I’m not going to give this interview. I mean, this is my one chance at fame; my five minutes of celebrity.”

“You’ll have more than five minutes, Weeze. You’ll see. You’re a great artist. I’ve always told you that.”

“All I really want to say is, ‘I’m thrilled to be in the pages of
People
.’ ”

“What color would that be, do you think?”

“Well, what color is their logo?”

Later, when Snooky asked what they had talked about, Maya looked mysterious. “Things.”

“I assumed that. What kind of things?”

“Things.”

He looked at her inquiringly.

“Women things. Things you wouldn’t understand. It’s not easy to choose what to wear to become famous in.”

“I don’t get it, Maya. Do you think my brain is constitutionally incapable of understanding women-type things?”

“That’s right, little brother.”

“Because I don’t care what I wear?”

“That, and other things.”

“You think a higher testosterone level renders me incapable of understanding what you and Weezy are giggling about for hours in her room?”

“Right,” said Maya.

Gabriela Loeser smiled warmly. She was wearing a cream-colored suit which set off her blonde good looks. “Hello, Ms. Kaplan.”

“Please call me Weezy.”

“Weezy. This is Vince.”

Vince was short, with a receding hairline and a face as wrinkled as a prune. He was looking around the living room appraisingly.

“Vince is our photographer.”

“Hello, Vince.” Weezy shook hands. She was wearing her moss-green suit and a black silk blouse which she and Maya had decided at the last minute showed off her pale skin to
advantage. She adjusted the silk bow at her throat with trembling fingers. “This way, please. I think you wanted to see my studio?”

“Yes, the photos would be best in there, I think,” said Gabriela.

Weezy led the way down the hall, exchanging casual banter with the two of them. She was thinking,
This is Harold’s girlfriend. His
girlfriend.
The little mouse that he left me for
. That fact, which had seemed so unimportant a few days before, now played itself mindlessly over and over in her brain.
Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend … Harold’s girlfriend in my house … oh my God, Harold’s girlfriend in my studio …

These thoughts droned on in her head while on the outside she was saying brightly, “Oh, yes, lots of light, and I love plants so much, so it really works out nicely.”

Gabriela seemed nervous, too. Her smile was apologetic, as if she were sorry now for trapping the two of them in such an awkward situation. But she seemed genuinely interested in the studio and in Weezy’s work. “These paintings are yours? They’re beautiful!”

“Thank you, yes, these are mine. I keep my students’ over there. These are my latest, the ones I’ll be showing at the gallery.”

“Gallery Genuardi,” said Gabriela. She snapped open her briefcase with a sharp
click
, took out a tape recorder, slipped in a cassette and pressed a button. “Gallery Genuardi,” she repeated, a little more loudly.

“That’s right.”

Gabriela turned off the recorder. “Can we get a shot of you next to the paintings? Vince?”

“Stand over here,” said Vince. He had taken out his equipment and was setting up lights. “I’ll arrange the paintings behind her.”

“Okay,” said Weezy. She pressed her hands together nervously. She stood in front of her paintings and smiled when Vince told her to. She was quite sure it was an idiotic smile. She was quite sure this whole thing was a terrible mistake. There was Harold’s girlfriend, doubtless despising her, pitying her … pitying her willingness to prostitute herself for a fleeting moment of fame. Gabriela was standing behind Vince, murmuring occasionally in his ear, pointing to one or the other of the paintings.

“Turn your head this way and smile,” said Vince.

Weezy turned and smiled. She felt hot under the lights. She was sweating, and her black silk shirt clung to her under the suit. This was the stupidest thing she had ever done in her entire life. She sighed and passed a hand over her face, then touched one of her paintings protectively.

“Don’t move, please,” said Vince. “Thanks. Actually, move that way. Turn a bit—that’s right—then look straight at me. Good. Good.”

It was like having your children examined by a particularly strict headmistress, thought Weezy. Examined, and not passing muster. She remembered a moment from her childhood when the young Weezy, overweight, with unfashionably frizzy hair (why oh why did I have to grow up when the Morticia Addams look was so popular, she moaned to herself), her nose sticking out and her complexion in the throes of early adolescence, was shoved by her parents into a bunk at her new summer camp to be met by the hostile gazes of five or six sleek-haired, smooth-skinned girls her own age. It was a riding camp, and Weezy had enthusiastically gone out and bought riding boots and a Western hat, which she was wearing at the time. After a dumbstruck pause, the other girls had simply laughed.

“That’s good,” said Vince.

“What?” asked Weezy. She had flushed deeply at the recollection.

“That look. You look far away.”

Far away in the Land of Humiliation, thought Weezy, turning and posing as instructed. Mercifully, it was soon over. Vince nodded and began to put away his camera. “Thanks a lot.”

“I wonder if I could show some of my students’ work as well?” Weezy asked timidly.

Vince glanced over at Gabriela, who shook her head. “No pictures, if you don’t mind, Weezy,” she said. “The article’s about you. You can talk about them later, if you want.”

They went back into the living room and sat down on the sofas. Gabriela took out her tape recorder again. Weezy regarded it fearfully. She always felt so inhibited when she knew she was being taped. Her voice took on a funny singsong cadence and, on playback, she always sounded like a stranger to herself: a distant relative, with an entirely different sort of voice. Someone she did not know at all.

“When did you first begin to paint?”

Weezy talked about her childhood, painting in her room when she was young; then, gaining confidence (it really is so easy to talk about yourself, she thought) she spoke about her recent career, her gallery shows, her students. She mentioned all of them by name. She made it clear that this was a master class of her best students, artists who were nearly ready to go out on their own. Then, under Gabriela’s prodding, she talked about her move to Ridgewood (by silent mutual consent, boyfriends past and present were never mentioned; Weezy talked about the hubbub of New York and the peace and quiet of Connecticut, nothing more) and her life there. She spoke enthusiastically about her new exhibit and her hopes for the future. When Gabriela turned off her recorder and packed it
away, Weezy felt perversely disappointed. But I have more to say about myself, she felt like shouting; much, much more!

“Thank you very much,” said Gabriela.

“Oh, you’re welcome. My pleasure. Thank you for calling me.”

“Well, as I told you, I’m a big fan. I, ummm, I always tell Harold that.” She glanced sideways at Weezy.

“Oh. Yes.”

Weezy showed them to the door and shook hands with both of them. Vince ambled out to the car. Gabriela turned to go, then turned back suddenly.

“Weezy …”

“Yes?”

“I guess you think it’s crazy, my calling you like this.”

“No. No, I don’t at all. I was … flattered.”

“I’m sorry everything’s so awkward because of Harold.”

“Harold has a genius for making things awkward,” Weezy said dryly, and for a moment they laughed quietly together, two women in silent accord.

“Well, I think the article’s going to turn out great. I’ll let you know when it’s coming out.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Good-bye,” said Gabriela. “Thanks very much for your time.”

“Good-bye.”

Afterward, Weezy felt despondent. She went into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of white wine and picked up the phone.

“I think I made a fool out of myself,” she said to Maya. “Oh, yes, I did. No, it didn’t go well. How could I have let Harold’s girlfriend into my house? Into my life? How could I have let her come here and interview me? Snooky was right
after all. I was blinded by greed. Would you put him on? Do you mind?”

She waited, thrumming listlessly with her fingers against the countertop.

“Hello, Snooky. You were right. It was ridiculous. Why did I let her come here? Why do you think she wanted to come? Just to see the harridan Harold used to live with? What?”

A pause.

“No, I don’t think she and Harold are admirers of my work. Harold never cared for my work one way or another. I could have painted my face blue and my nose green and stood on my head for all he cared.”

She sniffled.

“Yes, I’d love some company. You don’t mind coming over? Good, I’m sure Maya and Bernard are sick to death of you. How long have you been here, anyway? Aren’t you leaving soon? You’re staying until the baby’s born? Have you told Bernard that yet? No? Good idea. Okay, we’ll throw something together here for dinner. I’m not hungry.”

She hung up and sat down at the kitchen table, playing idly with her wineglass. Outside, the day continued sunny and warm, undisturbed by her turbulent state of mind. She hated the weather. She hated herself. She sighed and sipped her wine. As always when she was upset or moved by something, she saw her emotions in her mind’s eye painted in vivid colors: dark red, the color of blood. Purple. A swirl of deep cerulean blue.

When Snooky rang the doorbell and let himself in, she went straight up to him and threw her arms around him. He leaned down to give her a hug. His heart skipped a beat.

“I’m so upset,” she said, drawing away and wiping her eyes.

“If you made love with me, maybe it would make you feel better about Harold.”

“I’m not that upset. Is Maya mad that I asked you to come over instead of her?”

“She didn’t seem to be. Her last words when I left were, ‘Thank God you’re getting out of here at last.’ Why did you ask me, by the way?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I needed a man around. Besides, you’re a wonderful cook and I know you’ll take care of me.”

He followed her into the living room. “Fame isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, is that the problem?”

“Yes. Why did I let her in here? I feel so violated.”

“You kept telling me that the only important thing was that she worked for a certain magazine.”

“That’s what I thought, but I was wrong. I was terribly, terribly wrong. I hated her, and I hated myself. I had no dignity.”

“I’m sure that’s not true. You have innate dignity.”

Weezy poured him a glass of wine. “No, no, no. I was ridiculous. I groveled at the altar of instant fame. When the interview was over, I wanted to talk longer, Snooky. I
loved
talking about myself. And she saw it all, and she must have thought I was ridiculous. Who in their right mind would let their lover’s new girlfriend into their house the way I did? Oh, I feel so … so
low
.”

“Did she talk about him at all?”

“Just a little, at the end.”

“Maybe she called you because she’s always wondered about you and she couldn’t help herself when an opportunity came up. Maybe Harold talks about you all the time and it makes her crazy. Maybe she feels just as insecure as you do.”

Weezy gave him a withering look. “Maybe little green
men are going to come down from the planet Vor and take me away to live in luxury on the moon.”

“You don’t have to be snide. I’m just trying to help.”

“You don’t understand anything.”

“Well, I’ll tell you one thing I don’t understand. If they’re from the planet Vor, why would they carry you away to our moon? Wouldn’t they have a moon of their own? Why wouldn’t they take you back to Vor itself?”

There was a silence.

“Deadly gases in the Vorian atmosphere, perhaps,” mused Snooky. “Inhospitable to human life.”

“Would you like some more wine? Not that you need any, the way you’re babbling on.”

“I’d love some.”

Later, he made her dinner (chicken breasts cooked with peaches; frozen broccoli, which he steamed and then lathered with butter; a spinach salad with olive oil, balsamic vinegar and garlic dressing). Weezy dug a cherry cobbler out of the back of the fridge, and they shared it for dessert. They ate in the dining room, under a skylight which Weezy had had installed at the same time that her studio was being remodeled. Overhead, the moon winked solemnly, a yellow orb floating in the dark blue sky.