by Rita Dove

    She was thinner， with a mannered gauntness

    as she paused just inside the double

    glass doors to survey the room， silvery cape¹

    billowing dramatically behind her.  What's this，

    I thought， lifting a hand until

    she nodded and started across the parquet²；

    that's when I saw she was dressed all in gray，

    from a kittenish cashmere skirt and cowl

    down to the graphite signature of her shoes.

    "Sorry I'm late，" she panted， though

    she wasn't， sliding into the chair， her cape

    tossed off in a shudder³ of brushed steel.

    We kissed.  Then I leaned back to peruse⁴

    my blighted⁵ child， this wary⁶ aristocratic mole⁷.

    "How's business？" I asked， and hazarded

    a motherly smile to keep from crying out：

    Are you content to conduct your life

    as a cliché and， what's worse，

    an anachronism， the brooding artist's demimonde？

    Near the rue⁸ Princesse they had opened

    a gallery cum souvenir shop which featured

    fuzzy off-color Monets next to his acrylics， no doubt，

    plus beared African drums and the occasional miniature

    gargoyle⁹ from Notre Dame¹⁰ the Great Artist had

    carved at breakfast with a pocket knife.

    "Tourists love us.  The Parisians， of course"——

    she blushed——"are amused， though not without

    a certain admiration¹¹ . . ."

    The Chateaubriand

    arrived on a bone-white plate， smug and absolute

    in its fragrant¹² crust， a black plug steaming

    like the heart plucked from the chest of a worthy¹³ enemy；

    one touch with her fork sent pink juices streaming.

    "Admiration for what？"  Wine， a bloody¹⁴

    Pinot Noir， brought color to her cheeks.  "Why，

    the aplomb¹⁵ with which we've managed

    to support our Art"——meaning he'd convinced

    her to pose nude¹⁶ for his appalling¹⁷ canvases，

    faintly futuristic landscapes strewn

    with carwrecks and bodies being chewed

    by rabid cocker spaniels.  "I'd like to come by

    the studio，" I ventured， "and see the new stuff."

    "Yes， if you wish . . ."  A delicate rebuff

    before the warning： "He dresses all

    in black now.  Me， he drapes in blues¹⁸ and carmine——

    and even though I think it's kinda cute，

    in company I tend toward more muted shades."

    She paused and had the grace

    to drop her eyes.  She did look ravishing，

    spookily insubstantial， a lipstick¹⁹ ghost on tissue，

    or as if one stood on a fifth-floor terrace

    peering through a fringe of rain at Paris'

    dreaming chimney pots， each sooty issue

    wobbling skyward in an ecstatic oracular spiral.

    "And he never thinks of food.  I wish

    I didn't have to plead with him to eat. . . ."  Fruit

    and cheese appeared， arrayed on leaf-green dishes.

    I stuck with café crème.  "This Camembert's

    so ripe，" she joked， "it's practically grown hair，"

    mucking a golden glob complete with parsley sprig

    onto a heel of bread.  Nothing seemed to fill

    her up： She swallowed， sliced into a pear，

    speared each tear-shaped lavaliere

    and popped the dripping mess into her pretty mouth.

    Nowhere the bright tufted fields， weighted

    vines and sun poured down out of the south.

    "But are you happy？"  Fearing， I whispered it

    quickly.  "What？  You know， Mother"——

    she bit into the starry²⁰ rose of a fig——

    "one really should try the fruit here."

    I've lost her， I thought， and called for the bill.

上一篇：From "Red Foxes" 下一篇：The Bear at the Dump