{"id":57,"date":"2018-09-05T05:10:19","date_gmt":"2018-09-05T09:10:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/thememorexe.com\/?p=57"},"modified":"2021-03-23T23:45:58","modified_gmt":"2021-03-24T03:45:58","slug":"the-birthday-party-excerpt-from-language-of-the-chaldeans","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/thememorexe.com\/wordpress\/?p=57","title":{"rendered":"The Birthday Party (excerpt from Language of the Chaldeans)"},"content":{"rendered":"

It is Margaret who answers the door. Her face falls immediately, I instantly recognize the extent of the sabotage\u2014 I am no longer fat\u2014or chubby enough to enforce the hierarchy of the skinny…. But wait! \u00a0All is not lost yet\u2014I\u2019m sure some alternative humiliation will be dispatched toute suite<\/em> to put me in my place\u2026
\n\u201cThese are lovely\u201d the birthday girl scrutinizes the roses for defect. Now she eyes me like pythoness about to strike. I recall, when we were both fourteen, something leopard like and predatory about Sylvie. Today she is still tall and regal. Still beautiful, but how shall I say… ruined? Somehow there is a broadcast of Spinsterhood emanating from her, an acknowledged failure…<\/p>\n

She is a startling silhouette in vintage Dior\u2014but almost nothing more as if the couture were an elaborate crypt to fit her in…
\nMargaret wears a form fitting turtleneck and ski-pants (why?) to expose her thindom\u2014she is like Cesare from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, an anorexic sleepwalker…
\nThey have both opted for classic chignons, the hair straightened and stretched and pulled back into scalplike perfection…
\nIn contrast all my textures are feathery, fuzzy and furry\u2014shamanic contrivances. They\u2019d like to disapprove, but I\u2019m way off their radar…
\nShe hands the roses over to Margaret who takes care of that matter.
\n\u201cAnd what\u2019s this, cake, oh dear, I\u2019m afraid we don\u2019t eat much of sweets these days\u2014\u201d
\nReally?
\n\u201cBut you do drink wine? I found my favorite Cote du Rhone\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cYes, but only white. You\u2019re a good sport to bring all this\u2014\u201d
\nThe doorbell rings. Margaret runs out of the kitchen,
\n\u201cAre we expecting anyone?\u201d Sylvie inquires
\nMargaret answers the door. It\u2019s Neill\u2014I could kiss him! He looks so incredibly suave, so handsome, so\u2014eligible,
\n\u201cHello ladies, sorry to interrupt\u2014Max, did you want me to come get you later, do you have my number?\u201d
\n\u201cOh don\u2019t worry about it, I\u2019ll catch a cab back\u2014\u201d I more flippant than necessary
\n\u201cWell call me if you do need a ride. Goodnight ladies.\u201d
\nHe leaves.
\n\u201cHe\u2019s incredibly sweet\u201d I say. I turn to meet the calculus of rage behind their eyes.<\/p>\n

Sylvie came from wealth, as I remembered it. There was some indication of an inheritance and no evidence of work or career. She had been reared to become a trophy wife. A socialite in Halston at UN benefits et cetera\u2026
\nMargaret on the other hand was not from money, and had always aspired to Sylvie. She did some sort of secretarial work at a government ministry. Fragments of old trivia flash by piecing together the puzzle in my head: Margaret aspired to Sylvie because she had a crush on Sylvie\u2019s very handsome and very unattainable brother (can\u2019t remember his name). But the brother in question was considered quite a catch, but also tr\u00e9s elusive. Such that Sylvie ranked as a celebrity in those days, since she could pick and choose who was fit to be presented to her brother. I recalled something about the brother scoring some well-matched society coup. He was married and also living in London…<\/p>\n

Some secret communication between my hostesses has decreed I should not be allowed to talk about my work or exciting love life. So the conversation veers into the province of dress sizes, dieting, how to exercise without developing unseemly muscles, clothes, dresses sizes, couture, models, their dress sizes, percentage of body fat…
\n\u201cHey do you remember that story you told us about being in the Congo and going with these American attach\u00e9s on some expedition to go find pygmies?\u201d
\n\u201cI was never in the Congo.\u201d
\n\u201cYeah you were\u2014your dad was posted there, it was our last year of boarding school\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cI\u2019ve never been in the Congo.\u201d
\n\u201cBut your dad was posted there, right?\u201d
\n\u201cWhat do you mean by \u2018posted\u2019?\u201d
\n\u201cHe was a diplomat\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cNo. My father was a doctor.\u201d<\/p>\n

I uncork the wine\u2014I realize I am at risk of drinking the entire bottle. I insist on singing happy birthday and making Sylvie slice the cake, a wonderful rummy hazelnut and cream confection. I watch her manner with the knife, her stomach is washboard flat, I wonder how it was even possible to fit food morsels, let alone intestines, kidneys and other organs, I wonder if she\u2019s had all those removed…
\nLooking closer, there is a slight curvature, beyond the thin membranes of skin and couture her stomach became translucent, as if lit up from within\u2014(I regard the glass of wine suspiciously)\u2014lighting up enough to make a tiny silhouette, a fetus, a boychild with his thumb in his mouth. Without warning, the eyes open and the thumb is out of the mouth pointing at me…
\n\u201cAre you pregnant?\u201d I hear myself saying.
\nWhy did I say that?
\nThe couture silhouette tenses, the knife drops.
\nThere is flatline silence.<\/p>\n

Why did I say that, I try to explain myself,
\n\u201cBut\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n

But the stomach is once more flat. In the corner of my eye in the kitchen I see a slop pail full of blood and fetal matter.
\nI feel a little sick.<\/p>\n

Margaret gathers my things, cake, roses and wine and escorts me to the door. Her voice is tense and hushed\u2014I remember that she was the kind one, after all\u2014
\n\u201cI wish you hadn\u2019t brought that up, it just happened last week\u2014\u201d
\n\u201cWhat happened last week?\u201d
\n\u201cThe abortion. It was horrible, she couldn\u2019t keep it\u2014the man she was involved with\u2014well I never met him, but apparently he was married\u2014and she just had to…\u201d
\nSuddenly I see everything clearly:
\n\u201cMargaret, it was her brother.\u201d
\nThis catches us both off guard. The face contorts with surprise then rage then fear… She sees the truth in my face, she hears the subliminal context of my statement:
\nMargaret, look at your life, a grown woman and yet you are still a teenager in your mind\u2014still in love with Gerard (ah, that\u2019s the name of the culprit, the much adored brother)\u2014after all these years. And she still has you under her thumb. You\u2019re still under that infantile spell\u2014 she\u2019s dangled in front of you all these years\u2014and used you as her handmaiden. Her foil. If I were you, I\u2019d go rescue myself. Now.
\nI relieve her of cake, roses and wine and leave her there, streaming tears. In my minds eye, I see her running in the other direction, the nearest payphone. Call a friend (friends? you have no friends, just the silhouette). Anyone. Help me. She will never go back there again. It\u2019s a good start…<\/p>\n

In the other part of my brain, a tableaux of Sylvie as Lady Macbeth, hand-wringing a-go-go, suspecting that something is awry. The phone rings, she pounces, it is the brother\/lover wishing her a happy birthday. Could you come over I\u2019m so alone<\/em>… But the Brother, he has a wife and kids and a life to attend to.<\/p>\n

Language of the Chaldeans \u00a92004, 2013 onome ekeh<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

It is Margaret who answers the door. Her face falls immediately, I instantly recognize the extent of the sabotage\u2014 I am no longer fat\u2014or chubby enough to enforce the hierarchy of the skinny…. But wait! All is not lost yet\u2014I\u2019m sure some alternative humiliation will be dispatched toute de suite to put me in my place\u2026
\n\u201cThese are lovely\u201d the birthday girl scrutinizes the roses for defect. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":3695,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_mi_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[12,5],"tags":[195,13],"class_list":["post-57","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-excerpt","category-fiction","tag-fiction","tag-language-of-the-chaldeans"],"aioseo_notices":[],"aioseo_head":"\n\t\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t\n\t\t