The Lonely Hearts Hotel(55)

“No, that’s not it at all. It’s actually the exact opposite. You see, I never agreed to marry you. I just woke up one day and I was married.” She scooped up some imaginary icing with her finger. She held it out for him to come and suck it off. She gave a sickeningly sweet smile.

Her face was covered in white flour. There was no way in the world that McMahon would be able to hold on to this strange girl.

? ? ?

EVERYONE KEPT TRYING TO MAKE it clear to Rose that nobody really cared about what a girl had to say. She wasn’t supposed to have radical and clever ideas. She was just supposed to try to vaguely follow what men were on about. They were supposed to bounce ideas off her as if they were playing racquetball. It was a more or less pleasant way of speaking to one’s self.

It was important to be a little bit stupid as a woman. It was important not to feel proud of yourself. You were supposed to feel pride only when your husband did something. If you were talented, you ran the risk of making your husband feel bad about himself. So it was best to keep your talent in check. Or become talented at things that he didn’t like to do himself. So you could be his very adept assistant. But Rose couldn’t accept this.

? ? ?

OUTSIDE, THE SPARROWS HOPPED AROUND in the snow, looking for crumbs. They were the color of books whose pages had been ruined in a flood.





27


    TWO MEN


   ONE FAT, ONE THIN



McMahon was vaguely aware that one of his fences was making a fortune off the objects that a handsome junkie was selling to him. When Pierrot stole and then sold a tiny Modigliani sketch, McMahon became interested in this thief. Despite his aversion to drug addicts, McMahon had Pierrot come into his office.

McMahon stared at Pierrot, trying to figure him out. Although he was a handsome sort, he was clearly an addict. His arms curved around the back of the chair, and his head was slung forward as though he were stuck up on a crucifix. Not like Jesus but like one of the fellows next to him.

Pierrot did not behave like typical drug addicts off the street. He had these odd movements—he looked up into the air with his lips pursed while considering a thought. It made McMahon conjecture that he had come from a wealthy background. He seemed like a youngest son who had been disowned, possibly for being a sexual degenerate. It was hard to imagine his story.

There was something oddly familiar about him. Pierrot reminded him of someone, but he couldn’t put his finger on whom.

“How old are you?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Where were you educated?”

“You know, I don’t know that I ever was. I did attend Selwyn House School briefly before they tossed me out on my ear. I’ve read a few of the classics, though. I stopped reading them because they gave me such a sense of ennui, you know? They made me deeper, and I didn’t feel that I needed more depth. I feel like I’m at the bottom of a well as it is. Novels and ice cream—both are things whose depths of feeling I try to avoid.”

How he had ended up with Poppy was a mystery too. McMahon told Pierrot, as a gesture of kindness, that he would erase Poppy’s debt and obligations to him. Her criminal record was beginning to look embarrassing because there were so many arrests. It made the entire police system look ineffectual. In return, Pierrot would bring all his stolen goods only to McMahon.

McMahon looked forward to Pierrot’s visits and finds. His art dealer came to the meetings. They would lock the office door after Pierrot entered, and he’d unveil his latest theft. No matter how much McMahon thought the painting or object of art was worth, it always turned out to be more valuable. Pierrot never argued about the money they offered him. Because of this, McMahon was a little more generous than he would have been with the average goon who tried to bilk them for tasteless items. But he needed Pierrot to run out of money so he would go steal more things, didn’t he? So he had to keep Pierrot broke.

One afternoon Pierrot came in with a small pen drawing of a snowflake in a cheap frame. He was stoned—the irises of his eyes looked like garden flowers encased in ice. He held out the drawing as though it were going to bowl them over, exceeding any expectation they might have of his capabilities as an art thief. But this one turned out to be of no value at all.

“It was probably drawn by one of the children in the house and then framed by a parent in a fit of sentimentality,” the art dealer said. “I can’t imagine that this was made by any professional.”

Pierrot looked disappointed. It was rare for someone as stoned as he was to experience genuine disappointment.

McMahon gave Pierrot five dollars for it nonetheless. He didn’t disrupt the lucrative business they had. He put the painting on the hearth. He told Pierrot not to worry, as he would keep that painting for himself. Pierrot walked out.

The moment the door slammed shut, the back door to his office opened and Rose walked in. She instantly gravitated toward the etching. “What’s this drawing? Ooooh, it’s so beautiful.”

“Take it if you like it.”

? ? ?

ROSE HUNG THE FRAMED SNOWFLAKE on a hook on her wall. Later, when McMahon walked out of the bathroom, Rose was staring at the drawing. He came at her from behind. He put his hands around her waist. After they had done making love, she got back up and stood looking at the snowflake, completely naked.

“This makes me feel so at peace, I can’t even tell you.”