Florida(28)

The women will be back soon. We should make our preparations, Manfred said, walking out to the Fiat that Grant and Amanda had rented.

Crazy motherfucker, Grant said to himself, but reached for his keys and wallet. He started the car and almost pulled out onto the road but there was a line of tractors heading up the hill homeward. They had to wait for the spindly things to pass. Where are we going? Grant said, watching the tractors trail around the bend.

The village, of course, Manfred said, his hands tightly clenching his knees.

Of course, said Grant.

The bakery was out of boules, so Manfred selected baguettes reluctantly. He bought a napoleon for dessert; he bought a pastel assortment of macarons. Leo loves these, he said to Grant, but before they reached the greengrocer’s, he’d already eaten the pistachio and the rose.

He bought eggplants, he bought leeks, he bought endives and grapes; he bought butter and cream and crème fra?che, he bought six different cheeses all wrapped in brown paper.

At the wine store, he bought a case of a nice Bourgogne. We have enough champagne at the house, I think, he said.

Grant thought of the full crates stacked in the corner of the kitchen. I’m not sure, he said.

Manfred looked at Grant’s face for the first time, worry passing over his own, then relaxed. Ah, he said. You are joking.

At the butcher’s, lurid flesh under glass. Manfred bought sausages, veal, terrine in its slab of fat; he bought thin ham. Grant, who was carrying nearly all the crates and bags, could barely straighten his arms when they reached the car. Manfred looked to the sky and whistled through his front teeth at something he saw there, but Grant didn’t pay attention.

We shall have a feast tonight, Manfred said once they’d gotten in and closed the doors.

We shall, Grant said. The little car felt overloaded, starting up the hill.

From behind, from the east, there came a whistling noise, and Grant looked in the rearview mirror to see a wall of water climbing the hill much more swiftly than the car could go. He flipped on the wipers and lights just as the hard rain began to pound on the roof. Grant couldn’t see to drive. He pulled into the ditch, leaving two wheels in the road. If anybody sped up the hill behind him, the Fiat would be crushed.

Manfred watched the sheets of water dreamily, and Grant let the silence grow between them. It wasn’t unpleasant to sit like this with another man. All at once, Manfred said, his voice almost too soft under the percussive rain, I like your wife.

Grant couldn’t think, quite, what to say to this. The silence became edged, and Manfred said with a small smile, More than you do, perhaps.

Oh, no, Grant said. Amanda’s great.

Manfred waited, and Grant said, feeling as if he should have more enthusiasm, I mean, she’s so kind. And so smart, too. She’s the best.

But, Manfred said.

No. No, Grant said. No buts. She is. It’s just that I got into law school in Ann Arbor and she doesn’t know yet. That I’m going.

He did not say that Amanda would never go with him, couldn’t leave her insane battered mother behind in Florida. Or that as soon as he realized he would go up to Michigan alone, leaving behind the incontinent old cat he hated, the shitty linoleum, the scrimping, the buying of bad toilet paper with coupons, Florida and its soul-sucking heat, he felt light. A week ago, when they drove up to the ancient stone house framed in all of those grapevines, he knew that this was what he wanted: history, old linen and crystal, Europe, beauty. Amanda didn’t fit. By now, she was so far away from him, he could barely see her.

He felt a pain somewhere around his lungs; dismay. What he did say was so small but still a betrayal of its kind.

I’m waiting for the right time to tell Amanda, so don’t say anything, please, he said.

Manfred’s hands held each other. His face was blank. He was watching the wall of rain out the windshield.

Grant took a breath and said, I’m sorry. You weren’t even listening.

Manfred flicked his eyes in Grant’s direction. So leave. What does it matter. Everyone leaves. It is not the big story in the end.

Like that, the stone that had pressed on his shoulders had been lifted. Grant began to smile. Grade-A wisdom there, buddy, he said. Lightning sizzled far off in the sky. They watched.

Except there is one thing you must tell me, Manfred said suddenly. Who is this Ann Arbor woman? And, when Grant looked startled, Manfred gave another small smile and said, That was also a joke, and Grant laughed in relief and said, Seriously, please don’t tell Amanda, and Manfred inclined his head.

Grant felt uncomfortably intimate with Manfred so close in the tiny car. There had been something he’d wanted to say since Genevieve’s wedding in Sarasota ten years ago, during what was in retrospect clearly a manic swing of Manfred’s pendulum. There had been peacocks running around the gardens; the guest favors were silver bowls. Grant had watched, making little comments about the excess that Amanda lobbed back with extra bitter spin. He saw things differently now.

Forgive me for saying this, Grant said. But sometimes you even look like an Austrian count. You have a certain nobility to you.

But I am only a Swiss baron, Manfred said. It means nothing.

It means something to me, Grant said.

It would, Manfred said. You are very American. You are all secretly royalists.

In the distance, the clouds cracked and slabs of light fell to the ground. Manfred sighed. He said, We have had a pleasant talk. But I believe you may drive.