Mothers and Daughters
- Автор: Хантер Эван
- Год: 1961
- Язык: английский
- Год: Simon and Schuster
- Жанр: Современная русская и зарубежная проза
Электронная книга - «Mothers and Daughters». Краткое содержание книги:
“That’s wonderful. Was the trip good? Did you have any trouble?”
“It was a long trip, Julia,” Arthur said.
“Come inside,” she said. “Won’t you come inside?”
She had not known whether or not Millie suspected anything about Renato until the day Arthur and David arrived. And then she knew instantly. She had not fooled her sister. The frequent trips to Rome had not gone undetected. Millie knew, but had apparently made a tacit bargain with herself. She would watch Julia and listen to Julia and take her cues from Julia; she would offer nothing of her own volition. They sat in the large terrazzo-tiled living room that night as the lights on the mountain winked out. David had gone to bed amid much fussing-over by the help, and the three adults sat and watched the lights go out and sipped espresso, and Arthur said, “How do you feel, Millie?”
“Much better,” she answered. She looked at Julia quickly, as if for approval.
“The air is wonderful here, Arthur,” Julia said. “Haven’t you noticed the difference?”
“Yes,” he said, “it’s wonderful.” He smiled. “When do you suppose... it’s December already, you know.”
“Yes,” Julia said, “but...”
“We’d planned on staying until—” Millie started.
“Until April,” Julia cut in quickly.
“April?” Arthur frowned. “I’d planned to take you back when we left, Julia. You said January. I thought...”
“Darling, Millie’s doing so well. It would be a shame to take her back to Connecticut in the dead of winter.”
“Well, this isn’t exactly a tropical climate right here, Julia. In fact, it’s damned cold. I mean, I can see—”
“Arthur, can we discuss this later, please?” Julia said.
“I’m going to bed, anyway,” Millie said. She took Arthur’s hand. “It’s good to see you, Arthur. Sleep as late as you like in the morning. I’ll ask Lucia to hold breakfast.”
“Thank you, Millie.”
They waited until she was gone.
“I’d like to kiss you, Julia,” Arthur said.
“I’d like you to,” she answered.
He went to the sofa and took her in his arms. He kissed her passionately and thrust his hand under her skirt.
“Arthur,” she said, “not here, please. The servants...”
“Let’s go upstairs,” he said.
“All right.”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
“Why, of course I’m glad to see you.” She took his hand. “Come.”
“I... I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Is something wrong, Julia? Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“No,” she said, “nothing’s wrong.” She thought, Is there something I haven’t told you, Arthur? Is there anything I have told you?
“Millie is all right, isn’t she?” he asked.
She hesitated for a moment, He had provided her with the lie, and she waited before accepting it. Something within her resisted its acceptance, something reacted to his innocence, his trust, something inside her suddenly felt rotten and foul-smelling. She considered the lie, she paused over it, she closed her eyes tightly.
“What is it Julia? I can tell it’s something.”
She sighed heavily. “Yes, yes,” she said.
“What?”
“Millie.”
The lie was hard coming. She did not want to lie. She closed her eyes again and shook her head, and he misunderstood the gesture and took her into his arms, the last thing she wanted. Don’t comfort me, she thought, don’t comfort your whore wife.
“What about Millie?”
“She... she’s worse, Arthur,” Julia said. “I’ve... I’ve spoken to her doctor. I haven’t told her, of course, there’s no need to upset her. He... he thinks we shouldn’t go back yet. He wants her to... to stay until... until April at least.”
The lie was, out, the lie, was told, she felt herself relaxing in his arms. She was covered with a cold sweat.
“And must you stay with her?” Arthur asked.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“Your son.” He made a meaningless gesture with his hands. “He misses you.”
“And I miss him,” she said. “And you. But what can I do, Arthur?”
“Julia, it’s so empty at home without you. I don’t feel alive without you, Julia. I don’t feel as if I’m really living.”
“But what can I do, Arthur? Can I take her home against the doctor’s orders? Can I leave her here alone and sick? What can I do? Tell me, and I’ll do it.”
It was easier now. She marveled at how much easier it was. The lie had almost assumed a veneer of truth. She was beginning to believe it herself.
“We’ll discuss it later,” he said. He put his arm around her waist and they began climbing the steps, “There doesn’t seem to be much you can do. I only wish...”
“Arthur,” she said, “there’s nothing I want more than to be home with David and you.”
She choked down the lie.
The biggest lie was waiting for her upstairs, in the bedroom.
He did not seem to know, nor did he seem to suspect, that there was anything different about her. He saw no change, and yet the change was apparent to her, she looked different, she felt like a different person, she knew she even walked in a different way, she was sure he could tell this was not the Julia Regan who had left Talmadge in August. But he did not know, and perhaps the difference did not show to anyone but herself.
Only once did he say something that could have been interpreted as an expression of suspicion, but even then she wasn’t sure — he might have been joking. They had entered the church of Santa Maria in Cosmedin and walked through the portico where they found the Bocca della Verità — the Mouth of Truth. The carving was a marble disk representing a human face, an old man’s face with accusing eyes, and a beard, and a mustache hanging over an open mouth. The mask dated back to the twelfth century, and the legend concerning it was that in medieval times a suspected person was required, in taking an oath, to place his hand in the mask’s mouth. If the suspect was swearing falsely, legend held, the mouth would close upon his hand.
Arthur studied the mask and then took Julia’s hand and gently placed it inside the marble mouth.
“And have you been faithful to me?” he asked.
She pulled back her hand suddenly, not because she expected the mouth to clamp shut, but only because his question had startled her. Arthur raised his eyebrows.
“Well, now,” he said.
Calmly, smiling at him, she put her hand into the marble mouth again. In an exaggerated attitude of piety, she intoned, “I have been faithful to you, dear husband,” and they both laughed, but her secret ached inside her.
She showed them around Rome like a paid guide. The tour was painful to her because, perversely, she took them to all the secret places she had shared with Renato. In a side street off the Piazza Navona and the Bernini fountain facing the church, she led them to a pair of huge doors, which were opened to her when the caretaker recognized her. At the far end of the enclosed courtyard was an arch over a long passageway floored with tile and lined with columns. At the distant end of the long passageway was a large statue.
“Let’s walk to the statue,” she said.
They started for the arch, and she knew both David and Arthur were expecting a lengthy walk between the columns. She watched their faces for the first signs of recognition, pleased when it came almost at once. The corridor leading to the statue, the columns lining the corridor, the tiles flooring it, the statue itself, were all a magnificent trick, a masterpiece of trompe l’oeil. The corridor was perhaps eight feet long, but it seemed more like fifty. The arch was slanted to give an illusion of perspective, the columns grew progressively shorter, the tiles progressively smaller, as one walked through the arch and down the corridor. The statue, which seemed immense when viewed from the opposite end of the arch, was no more than three feet high. She could remember her own reaction to the optical illusion when Renato first showed it to her, and she was pleased now by the reactions of her husband and her son — and yet annoyed somehow.