Teethmarks on My Tongue: A Novel by Eileen Battersby

Author:Eileen Battersby
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dalkey Archive Press
Published: 2017-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

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The pompous little hotel clerk was as good as his word; the water was hot. I let the bath run while I rushed down the stairs to see if any food had been left in the dining room. There was usually something on the buffet table, the idea being that the guests might be hungry, and I was always ready to eat. I took a bunch of fat purple grapes and several small Danish pastries, as well as a fancy cheese wrapped in waxy parchment. No one saw me retreating back upstairs with my supplies. I had collected several bottles of an orange-juice-like drink, arranged in a group on the little bureau by the bed. I liked looking at them; they added some color to the room.

When I opened the bathroom door, I couldn’t see for the steam, thick as a curtain, billowing forth like a genie escaped from a bottle. Even the bath was invisible, which is why I walked into it bruising both shins.

Encased in the scalding water up to my neck, an unbroken layer of bubbles, thinking about horses and that the only man to have seen me almost naked, was of the opinion that I looked like a boy, I thought yet again of Billy Bob. I knew where he had gone; Mitzi had been shocked and warned me against telling anyone. But I knew, I felt it deep in my heart. He had climbed into the grave that night after everyone had gone, down in under the tarpaulin, to be with Monticello. Billy Bob had been lying there, with a bottle of whatever it took to make him feel comfortable; ready to take his leave of life, before that friend of his, Nathan I think was his name, had come along, as agreed, to finish off the burial mound. There was no doubt, clear as day, my mentor had already made his decision as he stood in the stable, I had felt it. He would never be parted from his beloved horse. That was the end he had wanted, to be with his horse forever. How wonderful to be so certain of the thing you love. I’ve always envied him that profound bond, although it seems that when you find love, it sure has a mean way of disappearing.

It was time to leave Paris, but not quite the moment to head for Virginia and I considered flying to London, to finally see Whistlejacket, down in the old abbey in Exeter.

The owner’s rich husband had made a special room for it. I dreamed of seeing the painting, it is life-sized, a chestnut stallion rearing, defiant, wild-eyed, but also a bit scared—it turns out he was. When the real Whistlejacket saw his likeness, he reared in alarm at what he thought was a rival and, apparently, Stubbs had to protect the picture, for fear the stallion would kick it to pieces.

Visiting the great galleries and the churches of Paris—I had even been to Église Saint-Jacques du Haut-Pas,

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