Motion Sickness Read online

  One of whom is Charles: I feel I’ve tainted her life with my report that Charles had not dropped off the face of the earth but was seen walking around an underground tunnel and in an Istanbul hotel. Perhaps she would have preferred him living as a monk in a monastery, separate from the human race, disconsolate, or maybe she’d rather have him dead and with the angels. Jessica believes in angels. Then she could have held on to him in memory. That’s what I do, hold on to memory. You relive memories, you develop them, you make them bigger and better and add a touch here and there, like a dab of perfume behind the ear of a memory. Death gives you a reason to remember, to put it all together. To put together a new body, of evidence, of evidence of love, of evidence of something solid to battle the ephemeral. People always say you shouldn’t live in the past, but that’s so stupid because it’s not a matter of will, it’s not voluntary. A person without a past is like a nation without history. It’s impossible. Jessica says things like, I must get on with my life, and I think of Goodbye, Mr. Chips. She’s unquestionably and remarkably good about death.

  When we discuss Charles, I try to recall for her, and for me, those few conversations he and I held in the hotel and in the tunnel or cave. Now it seems important to take the pieces of dialogue that lie strewn in that tunnel and pile them on top of each other. And like the jigsaw puzzle that always comes to mind when someone says my life is in pieces, one wants to fashion a whole, something like a personality or a character, but I never finished those giant puzzles when I was a kid, and the way I pick up the pieces and display them for Jessica must be nearly useless. He said, I say, “I’m not much good at anything.” “I hate London.” “I think I’ll travel for a while. Just read and think. Maybe learn to play the clarinet.” He talked, I report, about Anthony Blunt and the Cambridge spies, then segued to Suleiman the Magnificent, the sixteenth-century Turkish sultan, who patronized the arts, particularly those craftsmen who worked with gold, because that was the trade he knew. Ottoman emperors had to learn a trade, which was the kind of thing my father would have appreciated, I told him then. Charles said, I can’t do anything with my hands. Then he held his hands up in front of his face and wiggled them, but as we were underground they were covered by shadow and I couldn’t really see them. He, I supposed, knew what his hands looked like, and the gesture, now that I think of it again, is entirely unreadable and not at all in character with the character I’m pasting together for Jessica. He has become, to me, like the underground man, a nihilist full of angst, who tests the limits of rationality whenever possible. For example, perhaps he left her for no reason at all. This is not what I tell her. Just as I don’t tell her that I sometimes feel like a female version of the underground man, which would make Charles and me transnational siblings. In my imagination anyway.

  It’s possible that Jessica intuits how Charles and I are alike, and likes me because I’m like him, if I am. Now I think I am, though I didn’t when I talked with him in Istanbul, which leads me to think that one remembers even the recent past so imperfectly and so much in relation to oneself that every object is skewered upon one’s own identity, like a kind of shish kebab. I can identify with and feel like any number of people, though, people I’ve met briefly or have known over a longer period of time. Everyone is just as chameleonlike , personality fragile as old glass in the windows of historical houses or, like dust, easily shaken from a very dirty mop.

  Thinking of dirty mops, I can’t visualize Charles and Jessica having sex together. Jessica seems as much out of her body as in it, and Charles, I can barely recollect his body at all, just his large head and those pale bluish round eyes that stared into dark spaces along with mine. I imagine many people couldn’t dream of sex with me or imagine my having sex with others. This doesn’t stop me from applying unyielding and unimaginative standards to them.

  Before going into our separate rooms which are next door to one another’s, Jessica says, putting her key into the lock, I’m not sure, though, what importance beauty has, except for the peace it gives me. But is that enough? Not to worry, I say to her, borrowing one of her phrases which is already borrowed from the English. A transplantation of a sort. Easy to do. Simple. Quite simple. In bed I feel like a body claimed by a name. Then a name claimed by a body. A thing, a human thing, small and powerless. I don’t confide these thoughts to her. Beauty has never had much importance to me.

  Chapter 3

  Small Pleasures

  Outside there’s shouting, yelling. It’s a fight between two men which I watch from my hotel window. I enjoy watching fights, as if I were a participant fighting my own dark and dirty battles. I don’t like to fight. The two men don’t look English and their angry sounds are twice removed, male and foreign. Foreign also to the English who stand on the sidewalk, also watching. They’re arguing about money. One could be the other’s father. The younger man shouts: I worked all day yesterday, all day, I want some money. The older man bellows: Work? Work? I worked too, you’ll only spend it on drugs. They’re standing close to each other, the public scene grotesquely intimate. The younger man slaps the older man across the face and pulls a black wallet from his back pocket which he brandishes, as if it were a sword or handkerchief, waving it in front of his adversary’s face. The younger man then strides to the center of the street, looks around, walks back to the sidewalk and throws the wallet down in front of the older man. The older man, who had been standing on the sidewalk as if he too were an observer of the spectacle, picks up the wallet almost casually and marches off, unruffled, a briefcase in one hand, the wallet in the other. Neither man looks back as they get farther and farther from each other, both turning a corner at the end of the street, leaving the other behind without a second glance.

  The fight is much less conclusive, though one got the wallet from the other, than, say, a prizefight or baseball game in which there is a winner. It’s much more like fiction—I could never do that—or haven’t yet—leave someone behind without that second furtive glance. What was that song? “I was looking back to see if she was looking back to see if I was looking back at her.”

  The street returns to its ordinariness, and the passionate battle, familial or otherwise, forgotten on a summer’s day. It’s at moments like these I relish being away, and am almost happy about having been an only child. Almost happy to be in a country different from my widowed mother’s. This scene from my mother’s eyes would have been edited differently. She works as a textbook editor in New York. She used to work as a script supervisor in Hollywood. In those days she was called a script girl. But that’s a different story. One I’ve heard and told a million times. “You can’t right—r-i-g-h-t—history,” my mother would say, “but you can rewrite it and then edit the hell out of it.”

  My favorite place near the hotel is a small French café on Moscow Road, off Queensway, an international street filled with Middle Eastern, Greek and Italian restaurants and shops, and a tremendous mixture of nationalities, in which I feel comfortable. There’s a transitory Times Square feeling to the street, not down-and-out, just a way station’ The people who will stay here forever, I feel, might get stuck in a kind of limbo, a not-London, a not-anywhere. Voluntary and individual diaspora is a luxury.

  Depending upon whether I think I deserve it or not, I’ll stroll over to the French café, for a café au lait and a small pastry. A small pleasure. Small Pleasures could be the title of a film I might go to or a store I might work in, or only what it is now, a moment in my life. But why not, I think, title these moments in a life?

  The café is nearly empty. There’s a sign outside it which reads Morning Coffee, leading a visitor like me to suspect a difference later in the day. As I walk in, Claudia, the proprietor and coffee maker, announces, We’re having an English summer. It’s early June and this statement strikes me as preemptive or at least premature. Also it’s an entirely new idea—an English summer. An elderly man and woman smile knowingly, almost as if Claudia had divulged a secret or told a dirty joke, then they bite i
nto pastries that ooze from all sides. Claudia’s Italian, born in Bologna, a Common Market European, but she’s been in London long enough to be a kind of hybrid, and I wonder if that will be my fate too, as it appears to be Jessica’s. Watching Claudia, I’m thinking about the English summer, hybridization and the elderly couple who are engaged in an animated discussion about the time their currency, not that long ago, either, he says, changed from shillings, half-pennies, and sixpences to its present decimal system, more or less making the pound like the dollar. Everything got more expensive “right off,” the woman remarks, everything changed overnight. She recalls a discussion on a bus, where complete strangers, dismayed, sought conversation about this radical move by the government. She doesn’t say radical. She says horrid. Life changed overnight, she repeats. Became less English, the man notes, and they both nod. Claudia smiles at me.

  Chapter 4

  Twisted Intentions

  On an unusually sunny day when it was remarked again that we were having an English summer, Jessica moved out. Moving from one street to another or one city or country to another requires about the same amount of energy, and I made plans to return to Amsterdam. It seemed easier to go somewhere I’d already been. I wanted to hold my London life in suspension, a bit of fluff caught in a solution, or hold my life in suspense, if suspenseful could be used to describe my life in London. Certainly life is filled with everyday mystery—we’re given answers to questions that answer nothing—and doubtless life goes on without me, and things don’t remain the same, but can “I” ever know that?

  This question, like so many other conundrums, puzzles and pleases and fills time, as does trying to imagine a mountainless valley. I eventually pack my bags and one rainy morning wander onto the street to get a taxi to the train station. In Victoria, I head for the ticket window and buy, in what strikes me as a fit of perversity, a ticket for Venice. I don’t want to go back to Amsterdam. I want to go somewhere I’ve never been. It’ll be my little secret. I like secrets. Secrets are sacred.

  The photobooths in the station do black-and-white and color pictures, four different shots on a strip, and I spend the rest of my English change catching myself in all sorts of poses, looking at the camera and thinking one thing or the other, waiting for the machine to whir and develop them, knowing that the camera cannot discern this inner life of mine. This secret life. And contrary to what Jessica thinks, one doesn’t necessarily leave a place to leave someone in particular. I’m reading Buber’s The Legend of the Baal-Shem, which Jessica recommended (she’s reading all of Jean Rhys), and on the train to Dover, landscape and brick houses passing by indifferently, it strikes an eerie blow: “An angel born of twisted intentions will have twisted limbs.”

  The white cliffs of Dover look like a quarry, and I’ve just had an argument with the concessionaire who sold me a cheese sandwich and gave me the wrong change, so that I can’t experience the cliffs the way I think I should. Several heads turn in my direction as I labor to make my point. From the expressions on their faces, mirrors behind which their opinions sit, I see myself as the ugly, that is, imperialistic American and, alternatively, the bossy New York woman. Or, less problematically, as just plain rude. Instantly I’m a set of conditions and positions, a reluctant but undeniable conduit, and Jessica’s epiphany resonates in this stuffy train car where I can conjure her enigmatic smile at will. If I were English, perhaps I wouldn’t have objected so vigorously, if I were more like my English friend who visits New York about once a year. He asked a counterman in a Greek diner for the time and was handed a cheese sandwich, which he ate. Then he asked for the check and was given a vanilla milk shake. John drank it down and paid without protest. To him that’s a New York story.

  On the ferry to Calais, on the top deck, I switch from Martin Buber to Patricia Highsmith and read Edith’s Diary. Nothing like a woman going mad for the right political reasons, as well as other more arcane ones, to reassure one of one’s necessary differences from others. A typically gray sky blows gustily over a sea covered with white caps and I’m wondering about the many swimmers who’ve been challenged by these inhospitable waters. The ship’s motion makes me queasy, nearly sick, and I look toward the horizon line. My father, who also got seasick, told me it’s what you have to do and if worse comes to worse—or worst—you drop your head between your knees.

  At the point of no return, where France is closer than England, the sky clears, very suddenly, and turns a bright cloudless blue, and some English people on deck raise their glasses to toast the sun, which hovers on the horizon like an apparition or, more comically, like a mark of punctuation.

  Switching trains in Paris at the Gare du Nord, there’s time to telephone Arlette, just to say hello. She’s probably at her bookstore. But I don’t. I change money, receiving large colorful notes for smaller English ones, buy black-and-white real-photo postcards of places I haven’t visited and French and English newspapers, drink a bowl of café au lait, wonder at French bread, reminisce about the smell of Gauloises and the nice Frenchman in Paris who ecstatically began at my ears and the nasty one in New York who wanted me to work harder, as he put it. Wantonly I enjoy hearing the French language, knowing that in a few hours it’ll be Italian. I write postcards. All this can make one feel like a traveler.

  Chapter 5

  Ruin

  VENICE

  The hotel was once a convent. Down the road, or canal, is a church of the same name that’s no longer used for services. This parallelism doesn’t escape me and surprisingly I like to go into the church just as I like sitting in the hotel’s lobby and garden. The empty church has a dank smell, maybe it can be said that it reeks of disuse, although this may be too vivid. Its aroma, redolent of mortality and the ephemeral, embraces one in a perfume of long ago, much too ripe, too long past, where the present couldn’t intrude. I breathe in, very deeply, the sweet old air, reminded that in that movie, Putney Swope, it was admonished that you can’t eat atmosphere, and I’m not sure that’s absolutely true, especially when you’re not physically hungry. A man sitting close to me, the church’s other lone visitor, hears me, shifts on the velvet seat and may believe I’m sighing. I think he’s Hungarian but have little to base this on. As I’m wearing black, he might imagine I’m a devotee of some sort, an ambiguity I momentarily enjoy and have already played with while temporarily sequestered in the ex-convent. All my devotions are secular.

  Another visitor makes her presence felt by moving from alcove to alcove and dropping fifty lire in slots in metal boxes which activate spotlights. Sudden illuminations fiercely disrupt the quiet dark spaces, making visible the Madonna with child, saints in ecstasy, chubby angels hovering above the holy couple. Tintoretto, the Hungarian hisses as if we’re in collusion. Beautiful, I answer, not knowing what else to say. He nods. These paintings are beautiful, because they’re everything they’re supposed to be and nothing more. They’re constant, like pets or old friends, the ones who ask for the same old stories and jokes. The friends to whom you want to tell the same old jokes. As if you and they were identical twins. And then tell them, word for word, gesture for gesture, just the same, like the last time, and wait for their response, as if your life depended on it. Today, breathing in church air, I’d like to be an extra in someone else’s story. The young American woman in black who intrudes upon the reverie of the somewhat older Hungarian man in tweed. The Hungarian crosses himself as he rises from the pew, murmuring Adieu or something like that. I mumble too then bow my head toward the altar penitentially.

  Two men walk in and point at the paintings. They’re speaking English in sober whispers and I follow them, to hear what they’re saying. One is lecturing the other about perspective and the vanishing point. The other says he likes skewed perspectives. I agree silently. Perspective wasn’t necessarily advantageous, he continues. Even the discovery of fire wasn’t really an advance, says the other one. The lecturer continues, the figures in medieval paintings, the incongruent relationships represent a different
world view.…I’m getting too close to them, and linger in front of another painting, losing their conversation. It’s the way we draw as children, I hear the other one say finally. Looking at the two men, I remember being told about a filmmaker who taught his classes that vision was an erection of the irises, which makes me wonder if learning perspective is something akin to and as traumatic as circumcision.

  Chapter 6

  Indulgences

  SAN GIMIGNANO

  Walking along a dark alley whose paving stones were trod by grander feet, nearing an historic site, I take in, as best I can, the fact that so-and-so died or lived or passed through, then look again at the innocuous structure that once housed him, sometimes her. Immortality continues to elude me. Alfred’s learned commentary makes our trip more like a documentary than a narrative film. We are investigative reporters about to discover clues that everyone else had overlooked, not romantic leads in an adventure or mystery. Which would be more to my liking. But we do fit into an ecology. Without us equals not seen.

  The sun’s pernicious rays make everyone happy. Men in white jackets and black trousers carry small cups of espresso on round silver trays, moving from table to table or from shop to shop, shouting pronto, sometimes with annoyance, and ciao with pleasure. On the street women sell blue-and-white-striped umbrellas made of linen, a local product, or they work inside stores behind counters, standing on high-heeled leather sandals, their well-padded feet spread over the sides of their shoes. I look at feet almost as much as teeth. Their feet look healthy, brown and pink, but probably are not. Late at night the women must rub them in their hands, exclaim at their exhaustion and soak their feet in soothing salted water held in ceramic bowls they’ve had in their families for years. That’s what I imagine when I look at these saleswomen who smile patiently rather than broadly and murmur grazie without obsequiousness.