The Age Of Desire: A Novel Part 14

"He thinks you couldn't have feelings for another man. You never have, have you?" Morton looks up at her with worried eyes.

"No," she says softly. "I never have. Never before you."

"Edith . . ."

"Look, we're in Paris already," she says, pointing through the clear s.p.a.ce in the front window where Cook has continually reached around from the side window to clear the snow. Through the peephole, the Champs elysees is coated with sugar. The shop windows are steamy. There are almost no cars on the normally crowded thoroughfare. And even the horse-drawn vehicles seem to be moving at an exceptionally slow pace.

"I'm sorry to be here so quickly," Morton says.

Edith weighs asking Cook to drive around for a while. To give them time. But she knows in this weather it's too much to demand. And their progress will be slow enough in the snow.

"Next Sat.u.r.day?" he says.

"Yes. Next Sat.u.r.day."

They look at each and settle back in sweet, smiling silence.

That night she writes in her new diary, "I should like to be to you, friend of my heart, like a touch of wings brus.h.i.+ng by you in the darkness, or like the scent of an invisible garden, that no one pa.s.ses on an unknown road at night."

EIGHT.

SPRING 1908.

Morton writes her often now. Mostly scribbled pet.i.ts bleus that whisper to her thoughts that occur to him: about books or conversations that remind him of her. About how he is haunted by his memory of their being together "like a ghostly breeze that blows on my thoughts, shuffling them all like cards, sweeping them right off the table."

On Sat.u.r.day, with Teddy growing worse and worse (throwing a crystal paperweight, weeping, shoving aside his food), Edith and Morton still manage to steal away, but rather than for a full day at Senlis, only long enough to walk the streets of Montmartre together. Oh, what an exquisite Sat.u.r.day it is! Not quite spring, but so much warmer than the Sat.u.r.day before. Shoulder to shoulder, they talk about what they once hoped to accomplish in their lives.

"The first time I was able to read a book, I thought, This is what I want to do every day for the rest of my life," Morton says. "I lose myself in reading."

"I find myself in reading!" Edith says.

"I find myself in reading your books. I've gotten hold of The Fruit of the Tree. When I am reading it, it is as though you are reading aloud to me. And I've ordered your short stories as well."

When they share good-byes, he whispers, "We didn't have our day together. We need to. I need to be alone with you." He caresses her cheek tenderly.

She peers into his eyes and says nothing.

"I fear you don't understand what I'm saying." His frustration is visible.

She opens her mouth, but words don't come.

"What are you thinking?" he asks.

"When can I see you again?" she says.

The next day, she writes him a letter: Do you know what I was thinking last night, when you asked me and I couldn't tell you? Only that the way you've spent your emotional life, while I've-bien malgre moi-h.o.a.rded mine, is what puts the great gulf between us, sets us not only on opposite sh.o.r.es, but at hopeless distant points of our respective sh.o.r.es. . . . Do you know what I mean?

And I'm so afraid that the treasures I long to unpack for you, that have come to me in magic s.h.i.+ps from enchanted islands, are only, to you, the old familiar red calico and beads of the clever trader, who has had dealings in every lat.i.tude, and knows just what to carry in the hold to please the simple native-I'm so afraid of this, that often and often I stuff my s.h.i.+ning treasures back into their box, lest I should see you smiling at them!

Well! And if you do? It's your loss, after all! And if you can't come into the room without my feeling all over me a ripple of flame, and if wherever you touch me, a heart beats under your touch, and if when you hold me, and I don't speak, it's because all the words in me seem to have become throbbing pulses, and all my thoughts are a great golden blur-why should I be afraid of you smiling at me, when I can turn the beads and calico back into such beauty-?

On that Tuesday and Thursday and the following Tuesday as well, they lunch together at faded restaurants far from the Faubourg where none of their acquaintances would deign to dine. Places with worn doors and broken shutters, and soft smiles shared across butcher-paper- covered tables. Sometimes there are kisses in the vestibules of the restaurants before they charge into the street to say good-bye with a handshake. Edith has never known kisses like this. Deep and slaking. Heart-shattering. She and Teddy never once kissed like this! She relives these kisses late at night, drinking from them again and again as if they were endlessly refilling carafes of intoxicating wine. A single sip can make her drunk. Oh, the silken siren's call of the inside of Morton's lips!

The restaurant on the second Tuesday is a sweet surprise: a tiny bistro that smells of baking bread, with a view of the river and bunches of riotously colorful silken flowers in flimsy vases on each table. They hold hands beneath the table. Forget to eat. Quote poetry.

And then Morton says, "Today is the day."

"For what?" she asks, game and excited.

"To be alone together."

"Here in Paris?"

"That seems to be where we are."

"You're . . . you're serious?"

"Of course."

"But I . . . how would we do that?" Her voice is light but careful.

"I've hired a room."

"A room?"

"There is a small inn not far from here. It's why I chose this restaurant. We can eat quickly, go out the back door, walk from here, then return, and Cook will merely think we've had an extended lunch."

"Morton, that's madness. We couldn't possibly."

"I need to be with you, Edith. I long to be with you. To touch you. Don't you want to be alone for a few minutes . . . ?"

"I don't want this to be about sneaking through back alleys," Edith says. "And a few minutes? Is that what we want? A few stolen minutes? There's too much that's fine between us to sully it with that sort of behavior."

"That sort of behavior is what people do when they love each other," he says, his voice churlish.

"And speaking to me like that. Is that what people do when they love each other?"

"If you loved me, being alone together would be exactly what you'd want."

"But I'm a woman. I express my love in a different way."

"I told you: there are women who express their love exactly as I do. And if you are not that sort of woman . . . perhaps you are not the right woman for me."

Edith feels her lips begin to quiver. "Maybe I am not that sort of woman at all. I'm a woman who loves poetry and tender touches."

"And what makes you think there wouldn't be that as well?"

The waiter brings their food but neither of them takes more than a bite or two. The silence between them is painful and weighty. The windows of the restaurant are open and the newly warm air blows in with the scent of flowers; suns.h.i.+ne shot with gold spills onto their table. If only Morton were suggesting instead that they walk down the avenues with the horse chestnuts just beginning to flower! If only he wanted to celebrate the spring together, like lovers do, instead of suggesting something so cra.s.s, something so beneath her. When the waiter has cleared the dishes, and Edith has paid-for Morton does not even reach for his purse in the face of the bill-he refuses to go back with her in the car.

"I'll go out this way," he says. "I have somewhere I need to be."

"But Cook will drop you wherever you wish to go."

"Not today. I have to go pay for that room. Just because we're not using it doesn't mean I don't have to pay for it." How petty he sounds! He heads for the restaurant's back door. She follows him to the doorstep.

"Wait," she says.

"I don't like to be played," he says. "It's brutal."

"It's not my intention to play you. I'm nothing if not honest. We just need to find a way to make it work for both of us. I didn't ask you to hire a room."

"It's never going to work if you'll continue to be impossible," he says.

The word stings her like a slap. How much of her life has she spent trying to be reasonable? To think and act as rationally as a man? But for him to call her impossible . . . the way he would a cotton-brained woman . . .

He is a few steps down the street when he turns back to see her standing in the doorway, letting the alley's unsavory air into the restaurant. She hears a stir behind her.

"Fermez la porte, Madame!"

Closing the door behind her, she steps outside into the fetid alley, s.h.i.+vering without her wraps. He comes back to her and takes her shoulders in his hands.

"It's not too late to say yes."

She shakes her head, slowly and with certainty all the while, breathing in the damp scent of the restaurant's garbage.

He squints his eyes as though he's trying to understand her, but they're speaking different languages. He walks away.

"Morton," she whispers. Her voice drifts out into the street, full of questioning and mourning.

She cannot eat. She cannot sleep. And worse, she finds no pleasure in writing. It is as though her pain and shame washes away her thoughts, her once phenomenal ability to lose herself in a story, in words. Every time she conjures up the word "impossible," she s.h.i.+vers, she freezes. In the middle of the night, she gets out of bed and goes to her letter-writing desk. Her hands shake as she writes: Cher ami, Of the extent to which I have been tiresome and "impossible" and not worth giving another thought to, I am perfectly and oh so penitently aware-ne doutez pas! I "walk dreadfully illumined," believe me.

On the practical side, as to your particular suggestion, it would be "the least risk," but possibly the greatest, to follow your plan, even if I could-as a.s.suredly I should-finally overcome my reluctance.

At least believe that I am unhappy, more than I can say, about it all.

And now when you "make a sign" I'll answer-whenever you make it. Only arrange somehow beforehand.

I'm not worthy to write to or think about. My only merit is that I'm unsparingly honest. But that's not a charm, alas!

I'll let you know the moment I am free. It might be Monday or Wed. Next Friday, Sat., Sunday are absolutely mine, en tout cas. I beg instant cremation for this.

E.

Anna notices that Edith is not herself.

"Are you ill?" she asks as she drops new pages off for Edith to work from.

"Not at all," Edith says, hoping that a breezy tone will make it so.

"Well, you seem unhappy."

"I can't imagine why you think so."

Her dismissive tone still doesn't make Anna leave.

"You've been quite busy this spring," Anna goes on.

"No more than usual."

"I think quite certainly more than usual. . . ."

Edith looks up sharply.

"Do you have something to say to me?" she asks. Lucretia is long gone, but Anna's frown is as condemning as her former mistress's. "Do you?"

Anna goes white but shakes her head. Yet she's not ready to back down.

"It's Mr. Wharton I'm concerned about."

"We're all concerned about Mr. Wharton. You're always concerned about Mr. Wharton."

"He's worse this time, Edith. Last night I came to see him for a few minutes and he was saying terrible things. About how he no longer wished to live with his pain."

"I haven't heard him say that sort of thing."

"No, he might not say them to you. . . ."

"But he does to you?"

"He said if he were at The Mount and had his rifles near at hand . . ." Anna can barely set the words one before the other. Her voice, normally sweet and lilting, is heavy and slow.

Edith sets down her pen. "Tonni, he does it to get your attention. Like a child."