In a way, yes, said Stasia. He helped pave the way.
He certainly loved paint, you can see that, said my father. And he was a good draughtsman. All his portraits of women and children are strikingly beautiful; they stick with you. And then the flowers and the costumes ... everything so gay, so tender, so alive. He painted his time, you've got to admit that. And it was a beautiful period—Gay Paree, picnics along the Seine, the Moulin Rouge, lovely gardens...
You make me think of Toulouse-Lautrec, said Stasia.
Monet, Pissarro...
Poincare! I put in.
Strindberg! This from Mona.
Yeah, there was an adorable madman, said Stasia.
Here my mother stuck a head in. Still talking about madmen? I thought you had finished with that subject. She looked from one to the other of us, saw that we were enjoying ourselves, and turned tail. Too much for her. People had no right to be merry talking art. Besides, the very mention of these strange, foreign names offended her. Un-American.
Thus the afternoon wore on, far better than I had expected, thanks to Stasia. She had certainly made a hit with the old man. Even when he good-naturedly remarked that she should have been a man, nothing was made of it.
When the family album was suddenly produced she became almost ecstatic. What a galaxy of screw-balls! Uncle Theodore from Hamburg: a sort of dandified prick. George Schindler from Bremen: a sort of Hessian Beau Brummel who clung to the style of the 1880's right up to the end of the first World War. Heinrich Muller, my father's father, from Bavaria: a ringer for the Emperor Franz Joseph. George Insel, the family idiot, who stared like a crazy billy-goat from behind a huge pair of twirling moustaches, a la Kaiser Wilhelm. The women were more enigmatic. My mother's mother, who had spent half of her life in the insane asylum: might have been a heroine out of one of Walter Scott's novels. Aunt Lizzie, the monster who had slept with her own brother: a merry looking harridan with bloated rats in her hair and a smile that cut like a knife. Aunt Annie, in a bathing suit of pre-war vintage, looking like a Mack Sennett zany ready for the dog-house. Aunt Amelia, my father's sister: an angel with soft brown eyes ... all beatitude. Mrs. Kicking, the old housekeeper: definitely screwy, ugly as sin, her mug riddled with warts and carbuncles...
Which brought us to the subject of genealogy ... In vain I plied them with questions. Beyond their own parents all was vague and dubious.
But hadn't their parents ever talked of their kin?
Yes, but it was all dim now.
Were any of them painters? asked Stasia.
Neither my mother nor my father thought so.
But there were poets and musicians, said my mother.
And sea captains and peasants, said my father.
Are you sure of that? I asked.
Why are you so interested in all that stuff? said my mother. They've all been dead a long time.
I want to know, I replied. Some day I'll go to Europe and find out for my self.
A wild goose chase, she retorted.
I don't care. I'd like to know more about my ancestors. Maybe they weren't all German.
Yes, said Mona, maybe there's some Slavic blood in the family.
Sometimes he looks very Mongolian, said Stasia innocently.
This struck my mother as utterly ridiculous. To her a Mongolian was an idiot.
He's an American, she said. We're all Americans now.
Yes, Lorette piped up.
Yes, what? said my father.
He's an American too, said Lorette. Adding: But he reads too much.
We all burst out laughing.
And he doesn't go to church any more.
That's enough, said my father. We don't go to church either, but we're Christians just the same.
He has too many Jewish friends.
Again a laugh all around.
Let's have something to eat, said my father. I'm sure they'll want to be getting home soon. To-morrow's another day.
Once again the table was spread. A cold snack, this time, with tea and more plum pudding. Lorette sniffled throughout.
An hour later we were bidding them good-bye.
Don't catch cold, said my mother, wit's three blocks to the L station. She knew we would take a taxi, but it was a word, like art, which she hated to mention.
Will we see you soon? asked Lorette at the gate.
I think so, said I.
For New Year's?
Maybe.
Don't make it too long, said my father gently. And good luck with the writing!
At the corner we hailed a taxi.
Whew! said Stasia, as we piled in.
Not too bad, was it? said I.
No-o-o-. Thank God, I have no relatives to visit.
We settled back in our seats. Stasia kicked off her shoes.
That album! said Stasia. I've never seen such a collection of half-wits. It's a miracle you're sane, do you realize that?
Most families are like that, I replied. The tree of man is nothing but a huge Tannenbaum glistening with ripe, polished maniacs. Adam himself must have been a lop-sided, one-eyed monster ... What we need is a drink. I wonder if there's any Kummel left?
I like your father, said Mona. There's a lot of him in you, Val.
But his mother! said Stasia.
What about her? said I.
I'd have strangled her years ago, said Stasia.
Mona thought this funny. A strange woman, she said. Reminds me a little of my own mother. Hypocrites. And stubborn as mules. Tyrannical too, and narrow-minded. No love in them, not an ounce.
I'll never be a mother, said Stasia. We all laughed, I'll never be a wife either. Jesus, it's hard enough to be a woman. I hate women! They're all nasty bitches, even the best of them. I'll be what I am—a female impersonator. And don't ever make me dress like this again, please. I feel like an utter fool—and a fraud.
Back in the basement, we got out the bottles. There was Kummel all right, and brandy, rum, Benedictine, Cointreau. We brewed some strong black coffee, sat down at the gut table, and took to chatting like old friends. Stasia had removed her corset. It hung over the back of her chair, like a relic from the museum.
If you don't mind, she said, I'm going to let my breasts hang out. She fondled them lovingly. They're not too bad, do you think? Could be a little fuller perhaps ... I'm still a virgin.
Wasn't that strange, she said, his mentioning Correggio? Do you think he really knows anything about Correggio?
It's possible, I said. He used to attend the auctions with that Isaac Walker, his predecessor. He might even be acquainted with Cimabue or Carpaccio. You should hear him on Titian sometime! You'd think he had studied with him.
I'm all mixed up, said Stasia, dosing herself with another brandy. Your father talks painters, your sister talks music, and your mother talks about the weather. Nobody knows anything about anything, really. They're like mushrooms talking together ... That must have been a weird walk you had, through the cemetery. I'd have gone out of my mind.
Val doesn't mind it, said Mona. He can take it.
Why? said Stasia. Because he's a writer? More material, is that it?
Maybe, said I. Maybe you have to wade through rivers of shit to find a germ of reality.
Not me, said Stasia. I prefer the Village, faky as it is. At least you can air your views there.
Mona now spoke up. She had just had a bright idea. Why don't we all go to Europe?
Yes, said Stasia airily, why don't we?
We can manage it, said Mona.
Certainly, said Stasia. I can always borrow the passage money.
And how would we live, once there? I wanted to know.
Like we do here, said Mona. It's simple.
And what language would we speak?
Everybody knows English, Val. Besides, there are loads of Americans in Europe. Especially in France.