Yes, how are you? Merry Christmas! I lean forward to kiss him on the cheek, as I always did.
I present Stasia as an old friend of Mona's. Couldn't leave her by herself, I explain.
He gives Stasia a warm greeting and leads us into the house. In the vestibule, her eyes already filled with tears, stands my sister.
Merry Christmas, Lorette! Lorette, this is Stasia.
Lorette kisses Stasia affectionately. Mona! she cries, and how are you.? We thought you'd never come.
Where's mother? I ask.
In the kitchen.
Presently she appears, my mother, smiling her sad, wistful smile. It's crystal clear what's running through her head: Just like always. Always late. Always something unexpected.
She embraces each of us in turn. Sit down, the turkey's ready. Then, with one of her mocking, malicious smiles, she says: You've had breakfast, I suppose?
Of course, mother. Hours ago.
She gives me a look which says—I know you're lying—and turns on her heel.
Mona meanwhile is handing out the gifts.
You shouldn't have done it, says Lorette. It's a phrase she's picked up from my mother. It's a fourteen pound turkey, she adds. Then to me: The minister wants to be remembered to you, Henry.
I cast a quick glance at Stasia to see how she's taking it. There's only the faintest trace of a good-natured smile on her face She seems genuinely touched.
Wouldn't you like a glass of Port first? asks my father. He pours out three full glasses and hands them to us.
How about yourself? says Stasia.
I gave it up long ago, he replies. Then, raising an empty glass, he says—Prosit!
Thus it began, the Christmas dinner. Merry, merry Christmas, everybody, horses, mules, Turks, alcoholics, deaf, dumb, blind, crippled, heathen and converted. Merry Christmas! Hosanna in the highest! Hosanna to the Highest! Peace on earth—and may ye bugger and slaughter one another until Kingdom Come!
(That was my silent toast.)
As usual, I began by choking on my own saliva. A hangover from boyhood days. My mother sat opposite me, as she always did, carving knife in hand. On my right sat my father, whom I used to glance at out of the corner of my eye, apprehensive lest in his drunken state he would explode over one of my mother's sarcastic quips. He had been on the wagon now for many a year, but still I choked, even without a morsel of food in my mouth. Everything that was said had been said, and in exactly the same way, in exactly the same tone, a thousand times. My responses were the same as ever, too. I spoke as if I were twelve years old and had just learned to recite the catechism by heart. To be sure, I no longer mentioned, as I did when a boy, such horrendous names as Jack London, Karl Marx, Balzac or Eugene V. Debs. I was slightly nervous now because, though I myself knew all the taboos by heart, Mona and Stasia were still free spirits and who knows, they might behave as such. Who could say at what moment Stasia might come up with an outlandish name—like Randinsky, Marc Chagall, Zadkine, Brancusi, or Lipschitz? Worse, she might even invoke such names as Ramakrishna, Swami Vivekananda or Gautama the Buddha. I prayed with all my heart that, even in her cups, she would not mention such names as Emma Goldman, Alexander Berkman or Prince Kropotkin.
Fortunately, my sister was busy reeling off the names of news commentators, broadcasters, crooners, musical comedy stars, neighbors and relatives, the whole roll call connected and interconnected with a spate of catastrophes which invariably caused her to weep, drool, dribble, sniffle and snuffle.
She's doing very well, our dear Stasia, I thought to myself. Excellent table manners too. For how long?
Little by little, of course, the heavy food plus the good Moselle began to tell on them. They had had little sleep, the two of them. Mona was already struggling to suppress the yawns which were rising like waves.
Said the old man, aware of the situation: I suppose you got to bed late?
Not so very, said I brightly. We never get to bed before midnight, you know.
I suppose you write at night, said my mother.
I jumped. Usually she never made the slightest reference to my scribbling, unless it was accompanied by a reproof or a sign of disgust.
Yes, I said, that's when I do my work. It's quiet at night. I can think better.
And during the day?
I was going to say Work, of course! but realized immediately that to mention a job would only complicate matters. So I said: I generally go to the library ... research work.
Now for Stasia. What did she do?
To my utter amazement, my father blurted out: She's an artist, any one can see that!
Oh? said my mother, as if the very sound of the word frightened her. And does it pay?
Stasia smiled indulgently. Art was never rewarding ... in the beginning ... she explained most graciously. Adding that fortunately her guardians sent her little sums from time to time.
I suppose you have a studio? fired the old man.
Yes, she said. I have a typical garret over in the Village.
Here Mona took over, to my distress, and in her usual way began elaborating. I shut her off as best I could because the old man, who was swallowing it hook, line and sinker, intimated that he would look Stasia up—in her studio—some day. He liked to see artists at work, he said.
I soon diverted the conversation to Homer Winslow, Bougereau, Ryder and Sisley. (His favorites) Stasia lifted her eyebrows at the mention of these incongruous names. She looked even more astonished when the old man started reeling off the names of famous American painters whose works, as he explained, used to hang in the tailor shop. (That is, before his predecessor sold out.) For Stasia's sake, since the game was on, I reminded him of Ruskin ... of The Stones of Venice, the only book he had ever read. Then I got him to reminiscing about P. T. Barnum, Jenny Lind and other celebrities of his day.
During a lull Lorette remarked that an operetta would be given over the radio at three-thirty ... would we like to hear it?
But it was now time for the plum pudding to be served—with that delicious hard sauce—and Lorette forgot, momentarily, about the operetta.
The mention of three-thirty reminded me that we still had a long session to put in. I wondered how on earth we would manage to keep the conversation going until it was time to go. And when would it be possible to take leave without seeming to rush off? Already my scalp was itching.
Musing thus, I became more and more aware that Mona and Stasia were heavy with sleep. It was obvious that they could scarcely keep their eyes open. What subject could I bring up which would excite them without at the same time causing them to lose their heads? Something trivial, yet not too trivial. (Wake up, you louts!) Something, perhaps, about the ancient Egyptians? Why them? To save my life, I couldn't think of anything better. Try! Try!
Suddenly I realized that all was silence. Even Lorette had clammed up. How long had this been going on? Think fast! Anything to break the deadlock. What, Rameses again? Fuck Rameses! Think quick, idiot! Think! Anything!
Did I ever tell you...? I began.
Excuse me, said Mona, rising heavily and knocking the chair over as she did so, but do you mind if I were to lie down for just a few minutes? I've got a splitting headache.
The couch was only a foot or two away. Without further ado she sank on to it and closed her eyes.
(For Christ's sake, don't snore immediately!)
She must be worn out, said my father. He looked at Stasia. Why don't you take a little snooze too? It will do you good.
She needed no coaxing, Stasia. In a jiffy she stretched herself out beside the lifeless Mona.
Get a blanket, said my mother to Lorette. That thin one upstairs in the closet.